In Stone
by randomsomeone
Summary: When it looks like everything might be taken away, Gaara can at least be grateful that he doesn't have to meet his challenges alone. Now if he can just hold things together for long enough to figure out where Naruto went . . . GaaSaku, Finished!
1. Break

The infamous initial author's note: I'm diverging from canon somewhere in the middle of manga #256, after the time jump. The standard disclaimer applies: I make no money from this; Naruto and associated characters are not mine, but Kishimoto's.

* * *

"I think we've lost them."

The hushed feminine voice brushed past his left ear as his arm was unhooked from around slim shoulders. Strong hands carefully lowered him to his knees before the speaker crouched in front of him. "Kazekage-sama?"

There was a faint sound of water nearby, an indistinct breeze. He blinked at the stone he was resting on, trying to force his head to stop pounding and his mind to cooperate, to make sense of what was going on.

"Kazekage-sama?"

And the person talking wouldn't go away.

"Gaara?"

He shook his head, looking up to meet her worried expression as she spoke again. "Gaara, it's me, Sakura. You remember me, right?"

Vaguely. Enough. He'd think about it later.

A hand patted his cheeks, and he batted at it sluggishly. "You're awake now, right? Gaara?"

Awake?

He'd been . . . Oh, no. That meant the vague recollections of black and red nightmares interspersed with memories of agony so intense that the nightmares were preferable . . . That meant that they were all real. And if they were real . . .

The girl—Sakura—was checking his pulse, craning her neck to peer into his eyes, then trying to shove an opened water bottle into his hands. "Here, you need this—"

He pushed it down. "How long?" At least he tried to say it. The sudden pain in his throat stopped him from producing more than a faint wheeze and was his only indication of how much he'd screamed.

"Shh. Let me take care of that first." Her hand slipped under the one he'd raised in surprise at the unfamiliar and decidedly unpleasant physical sensation. Fingertips hovered beside his windpipe, her unfocused gaze and a soft warmth marking her attempt to repair the damage he'd done.

Whatever happened must have taken a while, and it had to have been bad. Otherwise his mouth wouldn't feel as dry as it did, and his lips wouldn't crack and bleed when he tried to run his tongue over them. They cracked further when he scowled. He could still count the number of times he'd been injured on one hand, and had _never_ been wounded before to the point where he required a medic's attention.

So much for his record.

"Stop that," Sakura admonished gently, as if she were talking to a child. She pulled back, folding her hands in her lap. "I've done what I can. Try not to talk too much or strain yourself until it has a chance to fully heal. You need water, though. You're extremely dehydrated—"

"How long?" The words came out this time, albeit hoarsely.

She looked down. "Five days."

Five days. Close to a week of being unconscious, having that tanuki bastard inside him tearing away at his psyche and with him not even having the faintest idea of how much of his self had been lost . . . Wait—where _was_ Shukaku?

A swift mental probe found the demon cowering in the corners of his mind, severely weakened but still snarling. Gaara wasn't sure if he felt relieved or disappointed by its continued residency in his body. At least its chakra would help him recover faster, he decided, as he accepted Sakura's proffered bottle and tipped it up to his lips. The water inside was lukewarm, flat, tasted vaguely musty, and was the single best thing he was sure he'd ever encountered in his entire life. What he'd intended to be a single sip turned into a gulp, then a series of gulps, then into him trying desperately to finish it all off before his stomach cramped and he dropped the bottle, clutching his abdomen and fighting to not vomit.

Sakura wisely shifted out of the way, hands forming a seal as she moved. He wasn't sure what she'd done, but her next touch calmed the spasms and allowed him to take a deep, shuddering breath. And damn it, that _was_ pity on her face.

And when had she become adept?

And for Sand's sake, what was that smell?

A second bottle was put in his hands, with a murmured explanation: "I figured you'd need all the water you could get." This time he made an effort to drink slowly, letting the liquid soothe his split lips and sore throat as he watched Sakura out of the corner of his eye. After he stopped, having greedily shaken the last drops into his mouth, she spoke again. "If you want to get cleaned up, there's a stream . . ."

Well, that explained the smell. The Akatsuki'd had no reason to give him a bath in the time they'd been his captors, apparently. He staggered to his feet, feeling somewhat more clear-headed and glad that the stream was only a short distance away. Ten paces. He could make that. Still at his side and ignoring the reek of his unwashed body, Sakura slipped his arm over her shoulders and supported him to the water's edge.

And aside from her, no one else was anywhere nearby. This also couldn't be good.

"What happened?"

She looked down again as she let his arm go, forehead wrinkling. "We think they were trying to steal your demon. Naruto and Kakashi-sensei and Chiyo-baasama—"

Her? The Elders were outside of Sand?

"—caused enough of a distraction for us to steal you back. Then . . . then everyone was fighting and Naruto told me to take you and run."

Naruto . . .

He braced himself, feet planted wide in an attempt to keep his less than trustworthy balance. "Where are they?"

"I don't know." She covered the quivering of her chin and twist of her lips by examining the long, slowly seeping gash across the back of her right shoulder.

Naruto had come to try and save him. And now Naruto was missing, and the Akatsuki were hunting them all.

No, this wasn't good in the least bit.

Because he couldn't immediately do anything to remedy that situation, he decided to follow her example and take care of a smaller, more manageable one. The leather brace for holding his sand wouldn't take well to water. His fingers didn't want to work properly on the buckles, but he persisted. The accouterment hit the ground, followed by the shuriken holder strapped to his thigh and a trio of remaining kunai. Last to go were his sandals.

"Do you need help? It's probably slippery . . ."

"No." People too sick, weak, or young to take care of themselves had others bathe them. He was none of those. Otherwise fully clothed, he waded into the stream, bare feet careful on smooth ledges of stone. It only took a few steps for the water to reach his hips. Deciding that the depth was sufficient and conspicuously ignoring the cautiously watching kunoichi, he took a deep breath and immersed himself.

Perfection.

The stream's water tasted different, mineral-laden and sweet. He drank enough to make his shrunken stomach protest yet again, then scrubbed at his hair for a few seconds before deciding that it would be that much better to just rest, just appreciate the faint gurgling sound and coolness washing over him. It really _was_ too bad that he couldn't just absorb the stuff through his skin, he thought, that it had to go through his digestive system before it was of any use to him.

A muscle in his arm cramped, but he ignored it, stubbornly refusing to move until the need for oxygen finally drove him to the surface. Snorting and wiping his eyes, he looked up to find Sakura balanced on the water's surface beside him, hand poised in such a way that she'd obviously meant to go in after him had he not come up at that instant.

"Could you . . ." She colored faintly and glanced away, then back. "Could you do me a favor? I can't hold my wound together and heal it at the same time."

He blinked at her, confused, then nodded and followed her to the shallows. The gash on her shoulder was longer than his hand and gaped every time her arm moved.

"You got this while running," he stated.

"Yeah."

And if the angle and depth of the cut were any indications, she'd gotten it while turning to prevent him from taking the blow. He frowned slightly, pushing the torn fabric of her shirt out of the way and pressing the edges of the wound together firmly enough that she flinched. After a few seconds the healing was done, leaving him free to sink back into the relative buoyancy of the water.

He knew she had another request by the way she turned, her blush three shades darker, teeth worrying at her lower lip. "I . . . I have to bandage it, so it doesn't split open again when we get going. And I . . ."

Even her ears were turning red. He wasn't sure whether to be intrigued or annoyed.

"Could you . . . not look, when I do it?"

Not look at . . . Oh. She'd have to take her shirt off to do it, and . . . Her face fell even further at the flat stare he gave her before turning his back. What kind of ninja did they train in Leaf, anyway? There wasn't room for some display of modesty in their situation! If anything, he should bandage her while she kept a lookout since she was currently the best equipped to deal with threats, and then they should _get moving._

And the complete lack of sound said that she was still watching him.

It wasn't even like her chest was the least bit impressive, anyway!

Well, he told himself, at least he didn't have to be vulnerable for long. It wouldn't be the same as if he had his gourd, but he could still form an adequate defense with sand pulled up from between the stones of the streambed, from the ground around him. It wouldn't be much effort at all; a thought would be enough.

The thought was enough.

And everything happened at once.

Shukaku bolted up from the fringes of his consciousness, shrieking, scrabbling for control, while the sand Gaara had previously only been vaguely aware of exploded into the space around him, shattering and pulverizing the stone under his feet, clinging to his arms and legs in the tanuki's drive to build itself a body. _Free,_ came the howl; and for one terrible second he was sure that the monster was right, that the struggle to control both it and the wild flow of chakra through his starved and weakened body was too much, as he drowned out Sakura's sharp cry of fear from somewhere behind him by undoing all of her careful work with his full-throated scream.

He wasn't sure how long it went on, just that it ended with Shukaku's exhausted retreat. And then there were arms hooking under his as he started to slump, another's strength dragging him out of the water, her thighs under the backs of his shoulders as vivid green eyes stared anxiously down into his. Sakura gulped, panting almost as hard as he was. "Gaara . . . You . . ." The fear in her expression shifted into something between shock and amazed horror. "What did they _do_ to you?"

He turned his head, coughed hoarsely, spat blood.

Receiving no answer, she glanced around. "That chakra blast . . . If someone was anywhere nearby, they'd have felt it. We've got to . . ." Then she was moving, grabbing the emptied water bottles and refilling them as he forced himself upright, then ducking under his arm to lift him to his feet. The force of her chakra-boosted initial leap nearly dislocated his shoulder.

"Not good" had never seemed like so much of an understatement.


	2. Despise

Once again: I'm diverging from canon somewhere in the middle of manga #256.

* * *

It took hours of looking over their shoulders, of tensing at every sound around them, but the pursuit they feared never manifested. Sakura made sure to stop every so often for water, re-healing Gaara's throat as he drank his fill and watched over her shoulder for possible pursuers. The more water he consumed, the more his thoughts cleared and his headache lessened, leaving him aware of how much of her own chakra she kept pouring into his system.

"I'm stabilizing you more," she remarked, scooting back from where he sat so that the warmth of her knee no longer nudged the inside of his. "Helping you absorb the water faster, too, and in such a way that it doesn't hurt your system any more. If you'd seen the state you were in when we got there . . ." Her hand reached out towards his cheek, faltered, then stopped, the brief dismay on her face evidence of how bad it had been. "You already look better, at least, and your organs are functioning properly again."

Having seen people that were dehydrated, with their sunken eyes and pinched faces, he could imagine exactly how he'd looked before. The leveling landscape drew his attention away from the image, though, and directed it towards the sun setting in the distance. They were apparently already in Wind, and only a few hours from the start of the stark, barren expanse that would be their final stretch.

"How far away was I?"

"About a day and a half's journey."

But they'd only been traveling for less than half a day since the earlier incident. Not remembering that much of their trip could only mean one thing. His jaw clenched. "How long did you let me sleep after you found me?"

She flushed. "I didn't. Naruto said not to let you sleep, so I haven't. You've been awake, but not quite conscious. It's what Leaf medics do to transport wounded off the battlefield sometimes."

Of course. Stupid of him to doubt her, doubt them. Gaara stood, relishing his relocated sense of balance and how his muscles no longer cramped at the action. "Thank you."

She watched him for a moment, gauging his mental state, then rose. "It's my duty," she said simply, and moved to his side. "Do you think we can make the desert by nightfall?"

"Yeah."

She supported him easily as they traveled, the distance pouring past, the brush thinning out into wasteland as they squinted into the sun's last rays. And now he held on, head up, pushing off every time the arc of their leaps met the desert floor even though he made no attempt to keep his feet from sinking into the cooling sand. Using chakra before had been what had set Shukaku off, gave him an opening. If the tanuki's babbling had been any indication, the same would happen should he try again.

Gaara might not make it through another battle with him.

"It should only be another few hours, right?" Sakura didn't look at him, eyes fixed on the darkened horizon as if she would be able to spot Sand from that far away.

"Yeah." Less if she kept adding chakra to her jumps, lengthening the distance taken with each of them. He made a mental note to learn the trick to it later.

_If you're able,_ hissed Shukaku. The fact that he couldn't easily ignore the other's thoughts might still be a side effect of his physical weakness rather than permanent damage. After his fight with Naruto, he'd had to put up with mental taunting for a week straight.

"And they'll be able to take care of you, to fix . . . whatever that was. Right?"

He didn't reply. He could feel her eyes on him for a few bounds, the worry in her expression, but ignored it. Their feet hit the ground in tandem, his arm flexing around her with each liftoff in order to minimize the impact on his shoulder. No obstacles truncated her leaps, leaving their rise and fall methodical, even, measured.

_Weakling. Can't even carry yourself._

The thought wasn't Shukaku's.

Land, his toes digging into the sand he couldn't consider using. Then launch again, her strength bearing him upwards until the fraction of a second at the top of their arc where he was weightless, floating.

_And taken down by just one of theirs, barely coming out alive at all . . ._

Then fall.

Mentally, he went over every error he'd made, every misstep in judgment. He'd crushed his opponent's arm rather than their skull. He hadn't followed up on his successful attacks. He hadn't paid enough attention to realize that the matter mixed in with his sand wasn't simply blood and tissue but chakra-laden explosives.

Rise.

He hadn't torn the ground up to blast the skin and flesh off of them from where he was standing rather than give pursuit, attempt capture. He hadn't simply shattered their limbs, clipped them out of the sky, and let gravity do the rest.

Fall.

And using that much of his strength against a single opponent when he definitely knew the Akatsuki traveled in pairs, and that facing one almost certainly meant facing two . . .

"Gaara?"

Rise.

And here he was, the youngest Kazekage Sand had ever seen, _supposed_ to be a genius ninja, _supposed_ to be capable, _supposed_ to be able to defend Sand which he damned well couldn't do if he got captured—

_Weakling. Pitiful._

Fall.

"Gaara, calm down."

But no, he was apparently still more trouble to Sand than good, apparently incapable of taking on even a single S-class criminal, let alone doing so without weakening himself to the point that a group would have proven an impossible obstacle.

"Gaara? Gaara, that hurts."

And all of it to be rescued by a team from an allied country rather from his own, a team not even comprised entirely of jounin or ANBU, and to be carried out by a little pink-haired chuunin . . .

"Gaara, please, _let go_."

A little pink-haired chuunin that had stopped moving and that clawed frantically at his hand where he clutched her upper arm, her eyes wide and horrified, repeating his name as if the sound of it would hold him at bay. "Gaara . . ."

A little pink-haired chuunin that was abjectly terrified of him, that had every reason to be terrified of him. After all, he was quite possibly once again the single most unpredictably dangerous person in Wind—and if he remembered correctly, it was only due to the strength of her teammate that he hadn't killed her before.

Her struggles had taken on the jerky, truncated movements of full-blown panic, of an animal caught in a trap. And it would just be so easy . . .

"Stop it," he grated.

If anything, she only slipped further, trying to back away through the arm locked around her, fingers fluttering uselessly over his, her training obviously forgotten and vocabulary broken back to three words. "Let me go let me go _let me go_—_"_

But if he did, and if she ran . . . Shukaku rose up, all but salivating at the prospect of the chase, however brief it would be, her screams as his hands—his claws?—tore her apart, the blood on his arms, his face . . .

He shook himself away from the mental images, forcing himself to meet her eyes and see her as alive, not as a broken dead thing with a flat, accusatory stare. _"Stop it. You're making it worse."_

And with a gasping, hitching inhalation, she did. The hand that had hopelessly been struggling with his stilled, and then began distraughtly running over his fingers in a manner he assumed was meant to be soothing. It didn't matter. The taint of fear was still on her, evident in her tightly shut eyes and trembling, in the faint, high-pitched noises she made while breathing.

Killing her would solve nothing, he told himself. Even though he could do it easily, even without the sand and without the tanuki urging him on, he could snap her neck and—

No. He couldn't. He _wouldn't._

Painstakingly, her breathing slowed, the line on her forehead showing how much concentration she'd put into the action. Gaara made an effort to match her, to relax his grip, to forcefully ignore Shukaku's slyly proffered image of what her expression would be if he took her down. Instead he accepted the sound of her voice murmuring soft reassurances, the feel of her hand sliding up his back to gently rub his neck. "It'll be ok. We'll get you back to Sand and they'll be able to take care of you and it'll be ok."

It took a few more deep breaths, a few more moments of letting the sound of her voice soothe both of their tension. Eventually he was able to force his hand to relax, to loosely clasp her arm rather than grip onto her. She followed in turn, her cheek moving as her jaw unclenched, eyes flickering open.

Not because of her words, or how hard she was trying to calm them both. Not because killing her would probably only result in him dying beside her rather than give in to his demon's promise of fleeting strength. Because she was one of Naruto's precious people, and he could never face the blond boy again—in this world or the next—if he had her blood on his hands. For that reason, and above all, he had to keep her safe.

However, the dampness on his sleeve indicated that his mission of keeping her blood off his hands was a miserable failure. Sometime during their struggle, her wound had split open again. He made a faint sound of disappointment and completely released her in order to examine it.

Damn it, she was bleeding and it was his fault.

"You should have let me bandage it before."

"I know," she replied, her voice soft and shaky. "I just . . ." Sakura shuddered, head lowering further, sniffling faintly, and Gaara decided that Leaf really did need to learn how to properly train their ninjas. Emotions were weapons for an enemy to use against you, not toys for parading around while running for your life.

He'd still just frightened her completely out of her wits, though, for the second time in one day. As means of atonement, he concentrated on shifting his tone from harsh to gently authoritative, from beast to leader. "Let's get it done, then."

Kankurou had told him—on multiple occasions, once everyone had realized he was serious about becoming Kazekage and simultaneously started attempting to groom him for the job—that it was much better for subordinates to see him as someone strong but sympathetic than as someone cold and distant. Apparently his brother's advice had merit. With one final sniffle, Sakura turned her back to him, facing towards the direction they'd come from as her hands raised to the zipper at the base of her throat. Satisfied, Gaara unclasped the buckle for the pouch at her hip to search for bandages, unable to mask a snort when she stiffened.

"You . . ."

He glanced up from the roll of gauze in his hand to find her watching him from over her shoulder, cheeks reddening visibly even in the faint moonlight. This was ridiculous. "I don't care," he stated flatly. Another tendency of Kankurou's came to mind: the jocularity by which he coaxed people to trust him. Maybe . . . "You're not my type."

She arched an eyebrow, managing to blush even further before choking out what may have been a faint laugh. _"You_ have a type?"

This wasn't working.

Damn Kankurou, and his advice, too!

He scowled before replying. "Not you."

Sakura grimaced before facing forward again, slipping her top over her shoulders and clutching it to her chest as he poured a precious trickle of water over the wound to ensure that no sand ended up healed into her skin. And even though the blush had crept as far around as the nape of her neck, the set of her shoulders and obvious tension in the palely illuminated muscles of her back said that she was . . . Angry?

"You're not my type either," she blurted out.

"Don't care," he reminded her, two fingers holding the end of the bandage down against her ribcage as he began to unroll the rest. "Move your arms out of the way."

She was afraid that he'd kill her, ashamed to let him see her bare back, and now was offended that he didn't find her attractive?

That was it. Leaf's ninjas were all insane.

Or maybe just all girls.

Gaara still took pains to avoid Sakura's chest while passing the bandages around her in order to obviate any other outbursts, paying attention to how the roll dwindled rapidly in his hands rather than to any exposed skin. At least he could do _some_ things without adding in unnecessary complications. "There."

When he looked back down after finishing the water bottle, she was facing him, fully clothed, head bowed in the epitome of ninja etiquette and cheeks only slightly flushed. Her words were near-drenched with proper courtesy. "Thank you, Kazekage-sama."

Apparently she hadn't blushed as much because she'd started thinking of him in terms of his rank, rather than as a relatively unknown male traveling companion. Hearing the title gave him another problem to consider as she settled her arm around his waist in preparation to leave. It wasn't even as much that he'd never appreciated when people hid behind formality. Frightening Sakura with both Shukaku and his own self-disgust was problematic enough while far from others. Once at Sand, though, hiding his current condition from his advisory team would be completely out of the question. And should he show that he was beyond the grasp of his own self-control . . . He'd be required to step down, and his own shinobi would be forced to destroy him like they would a rabid animal. And he would be duty-bound to not resist any of it.

And she, determined and innocent, was rushing him there as quickly as she possibly could in hopes of salvation.

"I'm sorry."

She glanced over, brow furrowed in puzzlement. Gaara brushed his fingertips against the top of her arm where he'd latched onto her before, his eyes focused on her face. "For all of it," he elaborated, silently hoping that "all of it" would only encompass his frightening her and not anything else that could come; his possibly awaiting fate at Sand, her possibly dead or dying teammates in yet unknown places.

The arm around him squeezed a little tighter as Sakura redirected her concentration towards the ground in front of them. "Thank you."

The following silence gave him ample time to reflect on their forward motion, on progression and regression, and how on some level it would make terrible sense that his dramatic rise to power would be followed by a meteoric fall.

It didn't mean he had to like any of it, of course.

Hours trickled by. It wasn't until the sky began to lighten with the false dawn that he spoke again, this time to warn her of possible outlying sentries. She returned with a warning of her own: "There's someone behind us. They're not making any attempt to stay hidden."

"Just one?"

"Yeah. From this distance I can't really tell who, though . . ." She trailed off, neck craned around in an attempt to get a look at their pursuer. "They're catching up. They don't feel human, too."

_You can stop them,_ Shukaku reminded him, mental voice sibilant, seductive. _All you have to do is let go._

He shook his head in denial. "Sand is just ahead. Can you outrun them?"

"I can try."

_Her chakra reserves are getting low. She's been running for days, and won't be able to keep this up. You're going to get caught. Again._

The last word was rolled too gleefully for Gaara to ignore. _Shut up._

_They'll tear her apart first. _Mental images of blood, pain, and utter helplessness flashed by in accompaniment. _Easiest target, fastest way to stop you from getting away._

"Shut _up_," he muttered, free hand going to his head.

"Just a little bit further," Sakura promised. And if he listened, he could hear the calls of the outlying sentries, see shadows detach themselves from the desert floor and dart forward to meet them. But if their pursuer was Akatsuki, then the numbers would mean—

She suddenly stopped running, turned to fully face the oncoming other. Just as quickly as she'd halted, the tension on her face melted away, replacing itself with worried relief. "It's ok. It's Pakkun."


	3. Found

Sorry for the delay in posting; my hard drive died.  
Last time: I've diverged from the manga's canon in #256 and own none of Kishimoto's characters.

* * *

"How much of it do you remember?"

Naruto glanced up from where he sat on a fallen tree, hands firmly planted on his knees. Kakashi, of course, gave no other indication that he'd spoken, opting to instead start unraveling the makeshift bandage around his forearm. The option to ignore the question was there—which was precisely why Naruto had to respond.

He swallowed, wondering if his fingers were still shaking. The memories paraded across his mental vision: his horror at finding Gaara abused and near-death, a flurry of insults, the missing-nin with the mangled arm and speech impediment making a comment about how "_this_ one might prove a little more interesting"—and after a flood of enraged shadow clones, his hands forming the seals for the technique that Jiraiya had specifically warned him against. Looking up, Naruto forced a sickly grin. "Not too much."

"You frightened them." Kakashi finally looked up, single visible eye locking with his, tone mild. "All of them."

Unfortunately, he clearly remembered that part—the shocked expressions of his allies when one of his multitudes of clones had turned around to face them. Then everything had degenerated into absolute chaos, with everyone assailing someone or transforming into someone else in order to add to the confusion. Tenten attacked with Chidori, Gai deflected a wave of senbon with Kaiten, Kakashi opened a gate or two, and in the midst of all of it Naruto had recognized a medic's technique and grabbed onto the arm of a version of himself, demanding that Sakura get Gaara and _get the hell out of there_.

As Sakura followed through on the order, dozens of shadow clones disguised as various individuals supporting a mock-wounded other covered the escape. Then, satisfied that the mass exodus would thoroughly confuse any pursuit, Naruto had finally turned to confront the particular someone that really, _really_ should have kept his mouth shut.

His companion's voice startled him from his reverie. "Jiraiya taught you how to control the Kyuubi's chakra that way, with that technique."

It wasn't a question. Naruto nodded anyway. "But he said I can lose myself if I use it too much. That it weakens the seal."

The copy-ninja nodded thoughtfully. Any further comments were stymied by the sharp sound of a twig snapping under the foot of someone nearby. Kakashi immediately dropped into a defensive crouch as Naruto swept to his feet, a kunai clutched in his suddenly steady hand. Both of Leaf's own relaxed, though, as a cackle of what Naruto still considered senile laughter proceeded Chiyo's arrival.

The old woman strode triumphantly into the small clearing, followed by a gigantic, spider-like puppet. Her wrinkles deepened and eyes scrunched with good humor as she pointed at them. "Ha! Do you have any idea how long it took me to find you?"

Well, if he counted the hours since everyone had scattered . . . "Um, yeah."

"We agreed to meet back in Sand if we got separated," Kakashi noted.

"Oh, I was headed that way when I saw some tracks from your one dog, so I followed the direction they came from." Chiyo nodded, obviously proud of herself.

And she was from the same village as the people who couldn't track two Akatsuki that had simply _walked_ away from Sand with their Kazekage?

The Elder must have noticed his expression. She blinked, ran a critical eye over him. "There's not a mark on you, but I definitely saw you get wounded by that one blast."

Any closer and he would have been blown to pieces. "Ehh, I heal fast."

"Because of the Kyuubi," Chiyo stated, then turned to Kakashi, smiling brightly. "You don't, though!"

Naruto glared. "You don't need to sound so happy about it!"

The puppet clattered into a haphazard seated position as its completely oblivious owner started searching her person for something. Producing a jar of salve and some bandages, she advanced on Kakashi. The jounin sat back down at her approach and held out his wounded arm almost passively for her to examine. "The last we saw, you were about to face your grandson. We were worried."

"Him? What, did you think he could kill his own grandmother?" She slathered greenish medical cream liberally onto the cut, nodding to herself. "After all, I taught him almost everything he knows!"

Yeah, she was definitely senile.

"You had a medic on this team, right? Why aren't they here to help? Or were they the one to take the other jinchuuriki?"

Kakashi's visible eye scrunched in what the blond assumed was a grimace as Chiyo patted a rectangular bandage down over his wound. The older man opened his mouth as if to speak, but Naruto cut him off.

"Yeah, Sakura took _Gaara,_ and they should be back at Sand by now. You saw her heal Kankurou, you _know_ she's a medic!"

"Oh? Yeah, I knew that!"

"You crazy old bat!"

"Naruto," Kakashi warned; then frowned, glanced down at his arm.

"And why won't you use his name now? He's got a name! He's your Kazekage, damn it, why do you keep acting like he's just another monster?"

"Chiyo-baasama, what was in that medical cream?"

"It doesn't matter," she snapped, all traces of humor gone, then turned to Naruto. "Because that's what he is, first and foremost. He's what you are. You should both be used to it by now."

"What do you mean, 'it doesn't matter'?" Kakashi tried, but Naruto drowned him out.

"_Used to it?_ What do you think was the reason you assholes had so many problems with him to begin with?!"

"Because he was too weak to control the bijuu properly, _the same as you._ You didn't even know what you were doing back there in the cave—you just let your bijuu's chakra take over!"

Naruto didn't waver, didn't lower his voice. "If you'd treated him like a normal human being to begin with then he would've had a reason to _try!_"

"Try what? He's a born killer, a monster under his skin—all of you jinchuuriki are, even if you won't admit it about yourself. You had no intention of letting Deidara live, especially after taking his only good arm with your Rasengan. I saw the look on your face. If he hadn't have run when he did, you would have physically ripped him to pieces, just for the fun of it!"

But the bastard had deserved it!

With the thought came a vague memory of blood everywhere, exhilaration, the need for violence pounding through him as surely as his pulse.

_Ripped him to pieces, just for the fun of it . . ._

Damn it, he would have . . .

He couldn't form a mental picture of Gaara being calm at the moment; just half-changed, completely insane, wanting only to kill.

Had he been that?

In the sudden silence, Kakashi spoke up. "Chiyo-baasama, how do you know the name of the missing-nin that Naruto fought?"

Her smile seemed a little too tense, a parody at returning to her relatively good-humored usual. "We've been researching the Akatsuki at Sand, of course. You mean that you haven't?"

Kakashi's eye curved in a way that indicated a smile, his hand reaching up to scratch the back of his head. "No, I guess we haven't, to that extent. Foolish of us, wasn't it?"

She sniffed. "Of course."

Kakashi wasn't trying to _placate_ her! . . . Was he?

"Kakashi-sensei!"

"Quiet, Naruto. You know better than to treat your elders that way. Keep it up and I'll have you run laps around Hidden Sand at high noon."

_What?_

"But—"

"He's just a troublemaker," Kakashi soothed, rising to his feet and guiding Chiyo away from his irate student, his arm hovering behind her shoulders, his voice low. "Stubborn, not too bright . . ."

Naruto's mouth worked soundlessly. That bastard! That—

That . . .

Seen from behind, the bandage that had been on Kakashi's arm was gone. Chiyo's liberally applied salve had been scraped off, as well.

"But rest assured, he will be disciplined when we return to Sand for trying to insult you—"

The skin around the jounin's wound seemed reddened, appeared puffy, even from meters away.

"And I, personally, will take care of things." Kakashi patted Chiyo on the back companionably, his hand resting on her shoulder for a fraction of a second too long afterwards. "One last thing, though . . ."

It couldn't mean . . .

Leaf's Copy-ninja spun and unleashed two handfuls of kunai at the still-seated puppet—which suddenly jolted to life, blocking the weapons with a combination of wooden limbs and chakra strings.

Then, as the genjutsu dissipated, with a long, scorpion-like tail.

"You didn't give her a heartbeat," Kakashi finished. Behind him, Chiyo collapsed bonelessly, like a discarded toy.

"It doesn't matter," Sasori replied. "She served her purpose. Too bad she was more use to me dead than alive. A puppet made from a human body always seems more real than a wooden one, no matter the illusion, and this version got me close enough to you to accomplish my objectives. You're poisoned, and I've got two jinchuuriki within my reach. The only downside to all of it is that I had to lose my subordinate." The puppeteer genius's eyes fixed on Naruto, his voice lowering in amusement. "Because of you, actually. Between you and the other one, Deidara wouldn't have been able to carry on as a member of the Akatsuki. I had to do him the favor of killing him."

Killed his partner. Killed his grandmother . . . Then made a puppet out of her dead body in order to . . . Naruto jerked, pointed. "You sick bastard!"

Sasori shuffled forward with a series of clicks, radiating smugness. "Call me whatever you like. It still won't change the fact that I'm taking you back in place of your little friend."


	4. Struggle

Yeah, I lied about the last AR note thing. Yes, I know what's going on in the manga; yes, I'm trying to create/stick on my own path.

* * *

"Of course," Sasori continued as he shuffled forward, "I was hoping that you would lead me to each other." He sighed, cloak shivering faintly. "Now it seems that I'll have to infiltrate Sand again in order to retrieve the other one."

Naruto snarled. To his side, Kakashi drew more kunai from their holsters and smoothly pulled his forehead protector up to uncover his Sharingan.

"Well?" Their foe slid to a stop, scorpion tail arched over him like the poisonous blossom of a wilting flower. "Let's not prolong this, shall we?"

The bastard . . . Naruto's hands twisted at the thought, clenched. Lead him to Gaara? But worse: infiltrate Sand _again._ He'd been told about the carnage inside the one gate the day Gaara'd been taken. Sand would have to deal with that again if he didn't beat this guy. But not only would losing here leave Gaara open to another attack—Naruto would have to go through the same process that had nearly broken his friend.

Sasori let out a short bark of laughter. "You're so easy to read! I saw the look on your face when I said you were out of control. You're afraid of that, aren't you?"

Of course . . . But that reaction was minor. His own lack of control, his own death and pain weren't to be feared as much as what would greet his fellow Leaf ninjas when they came searching for him, as what would happen to Kakashi for attempting to prevent his capture, as how much the Akatsuki's plans would be furthered by Sasori's success.

"Why not just make it easier and give up now?"

Yes, give up now, give in. Because after all, the rage was always so much easier to accept than surrender . . . At the decision, his senses spiked, his thoughts coming sharp and fast and clear.

"It'll be for the best. Otherwise, you'll end up a ravening, slavering monstrosity, just like—"

The missing-nin's speech was cut off as Naruto dove at him with a roar.

He'd never fought Kankurou, never asked Shino what it was like to fight Kankurou. Hell, he had no experience with fighting puppeteers. But that didn't mean the basics didn't apply. Sasori's tail was apparently his main weapon. Naruto ducked under its first sweep, dodged the second, and leapt, his feet landing squarely on Sasori's back and his fist aimed for the base of his opponent's skull.

"Too slow!" Sasori called—and to Naruto's shock, the puppeteer's head spun completely around, the blond's only warning being the way the veiled mouth gaped. Diving backwards to avoid the blast of projectiles, Naruto glanced over his shoulder to find his opponent's tail poised and ready. He flinched, tensing—but the strike he expected never came. Kakashi crashed into the appendage, knocking it aside; then landed heavily, rolling out of range with a grunt of pain and none of his usual grace.

Damn it, what had Sasori done to him?

"Kakashi-sensei!"

The tail stabbed down at him, forced him to leap out of the way. His feet and fingers dug into the dirt, muscles bunching—then he launched himself again, Rasengan forming in his hand. All it would take was getting one good shot in on that misshapen body, and—

The bastard dodged it, his considerable bulk moving smoothly to the side, an arm uncoiling from under the black and red cloak to grab for him. Another swiped at Kakashi, false fingertips flicking to reveal short blades that clashed off of the attacking ninja's kunai. Naruto dodged the puppet's grasp and set himself up to attack again, but neglected to notice how close Sasori's tail had gotten. The cheer he'd intended to direct towards Kakashi turned instead into a yelp as the segments coiled around him and yanked him off his feet. Dangling upside-down, he had only a second to struggle until an undoubtedly poisoned needle was pointed a little too near his throat.

"What is this?" The tail jerked, shaking him roughly. Vigorous twisting was the only thing that kept the genin from getting stabbed. "The Kyuubi, this weak? If I had known you would be this easy to capture, I would have done it myself years ago."

Despite his position and the bead of sweat running down his cheek, Naruto managed a toothy grin. "You made a mistake."

The puppet genius managed to look confused.

"You didn't ask us why we were still out here." Naruto glanced over to Kakashi, who had somehow managed to keep his footing throughout the confusion. "We've been throwing off pursuit. Every few hours, I've sent more clones out to confuse you guys. Not just illusions. Hundreds of real bodies, each with a part of my chakra to use."

"Stop fooling around," Sasori snarled, punctuating his words with another shake.

"If you say so." One seal was all it took. "Kai!"

At the release of his clones, his chakra levels finally returned to normal. A deliberately uncontrolled Rasengan tore Sasori's grip from his body, tossing them both in opposite directions.

The blond dusted himself off near-nonchalantly as he stood. "I can't use my chakra right if I have all those clones out there, you know?"

"Wonderful," hissed Sasori gleefully. _He'd_ of course managed to catch himself with one of many arms before his cloak could even brush the ground. "Now . . . Show me what you're capable of." He paused, considering. "Or would you prefer to wait until your friend no longer can move to help you?"

_Shit! _

Jiraiya'd once warned him about the dangers of letting an enemy goad you, but Naruto couldn't remember what that quip was. However, he did remember when Sakura'd said something to Kankurou about how the poison in his system caused paralysis. If he didn't take care of things fast, Kakashi would be of no help to him, would be unable to prevent anything from happening to either of them, would die out there. Alone.

Like Chiyo had died alone, without anyone to help her, all of her strangeness and age and ability collapsing down to simply being outclassed by one of her own family. Alone, after he'd made the decision to have everyone split up and run. Alone because he'd put her in the position to fight Sasori by herself.

Alone, and it was his fault.

_Damn it. Damn it . . ._

_Damn him!_

Naruto's chakra rose around him near-visibly, restraint lost with his need to batter the bastard in front of him into the ground. For what Sasori'd done, what he intended to do . . . he _would_ pay.

This time the blond was ready. Sasori made the mistake of darting to Naruto's left to avoid Rasengan, and thus wasn't prepared for the youth's second attack. The kunai in Naruto's left hand skimmed close to his target's body but clashed fruitlessly off of a constructed arm's joint and was torn from his grip. Kakashi's, though, pinned an attacking puppet hand to the ground after deflecting the spike set in another's wrist.

"That's what you want, isn't it?" The jounin landed in a crouch, pain evident on his tense features. "To provoke him, then wear him down, to see what he's capable of for the Akatsuki."

"For the Akatsuki?" Sasori made a sharp sound of disbelief. His tail lashed like an angry animal's. "Don't you realize that this is bigger than them? The other jinchuuriki's abilities shield him. This one's heal him. Between them alone, with their strength and even without any others . . . They could create or break, heal or defend against almost _anything_."

"So that's what you're really after? Not the Akatsuki—you." The jounin straightened, grimacing. "One to shield, better than the armor you're wearing now. One to heal what's already been done to you. And it's not even about how Chiyo-baasama damaged you in your last fight."

Sasori struck out at him, but the trio of kunai caught only a replication. Kakashi reappeared with a puff of smoke only a few feet away from the pincushioned log, continuing his tense speech. "And by using poisons that paralyze rather than immediately kill . . . It's personal, isn't it? You want people to suffer like you've suffered. You can't move without the puppets, can't walk."

A faint hissing sound met Naruto's ears, as curling wooden fingers dug furrows in the soil.

Kakashi continued, eyes fixed on their opponent. "You don't have loyalties to the Akatsuki as much as to yourself. You don't want the jinchuuriki for your organization's purpose. If at all possible, you would have stolen them first. You want the abilities for your own."

"The poison could have let you die relatively peacefully," Sasori sneered. "But for that, I'll kill you myself rather than let you impart your knowledge to anyone before your death."

Naruto shook his head in disbelief, fists clenching. The attacks, their entire rescue mission had been the product of one person or another's selfishness.

But the deaths . . .

Chiyo had died, and it was his fault.

If he didn't succeed, Kakashi would die, and it would be his fault too.

Hell, even Deidara had been his fault, no matter that he'd intended to kill the freak himself.

Yes, Sasori had committed the acts, would commit Kakashi's murder the same way he'd destroyed his own partner, but the only one Naruto could blame for it all . . . would be himself.

_No._

"The hell you will!"

A new kunai in his left hand, Rasengan swirling to life in his right, Naruto charged again. Jiraiya had taught him how to deal with evasive opponents. He'd been training for a moment like this—a fight with an Akatsuki member—for more than two years.

To Sasori's other side, brilliant light and high-pitched chirping signaled Kakashi's resort to Chidori. Having two master techniques to deal with unfortunately didn't faze their opponent in the least. The puppeteer spun to face Naruto, unleashing a wave of senbon towards Kakashi that managed to stagger the jounin's forward momentum.

But Naruto'd known he'd do that. After all, an elite jounin would prove more of a task to subdue than one loudmouthed genin, and getting opponents out of the picture as quickly as possible was a basic key to surviving multiple attackers.

Repeating an action that got you hit was stupid, as well. That meant Sasori had two directions to go when he swung with Rasengan: backwards into Kakashi, who was engaged in attempting to dodge the wildly waving scorpion tail—or to Naruto's right.

With a clatter of limbs, Sasori dodged forward, trying to slip past the strike by going exactly where Naruto had expected him to.

But damn him, Naruto'd _earned_ his title as the loudest, most surprising ninja in Leaf.

The spiraling ball of chakra in his right hand missed its target and immediately puffed into nothingness. Naruto ignored how the distance between them signaled the puppeteer's derision, the fact that an arm was coming up for him, needle-tipped fingers ready. Instead he used the momentum from his swing to start a spin, his left foot crossing behind his right as the kunai in his hand blurred around towards the side of Sasori's face.

Inches away, he dropped the illusion masking what it really was—a second Rasengan.

The blast sent the missing-nin flying. Unwilling to miss the opportunity, Kakashi charged forward and drove Chidori into a black-cloaked and bulky side before diving away in order to avoid the flying pieces of puppetry. Naruto caught his instructor when it looked like the fall would turn bad, like Kakashi wouldn't be able to get his feet under him in time.

"Are you ok, Kakashi-sensei?"

Kakashi grimaced, gripped his wounded arm. "Don't worry about me. Get _him._"

Slowly, Naruto turned to where the dust was settling, revealing a pallid man, a tired-looking man almost lost inside a tangle of puppet parts.

"Go ahead," Sasori wheezed. "Kill me. It's what you want. It's what the bijuu in you wants."

Naruto crossed the clearing to stand in front of the mess and held up his hand. Rasengan formed with the ease of long practice, swirled idly over his palm.

"Do it," continued Sasori, "and you'll be giving in. You'll be no better than he ever was. You'll be the very monster you fear."

He considered.

Chiyo, dying alone and at the hands of someone she once loved.

Kakashi, poisoned, in pain.

Gaara explaining his reasons for killing, face twisted with insanity . . . then motionless, taken down while trying to defend the people he'd once claimed to despise.

And bastards like this that made it all happen, that tore apart villages and destroyed lives and had the nerve to call other people monsters.

He glanced up from the spin of his chakra, met the other's eyes.

"I don't care."


	5. Wait

Gaara's weary companion surrendered him to the sentries without protest, then fell to her knees in order to question their miniature pursuer. He didn't pay attention to the hurried conversation, though, because among the sudden onslaught of rescuers was his brother. Kankurou intently brushed others out of his way without as much as a second glance as he approached—and if his grim expression and shocking lack of summoning scrolls were any indication, then something else had gone wrong.

Before Gaara could do more than open his mouth to ask about the situation or warn them of his own predicament, he was half-smothered against Kankurou's shoulder. The gesture of affection did nothing to quell his rising sense of unease, especially as he noted the tension in the other's muscles.

"They've got someone on the inside," Kankurou hissed into his ear.

"They" could only be the Akatsuki. The implications of that short statement spun through his head, momentarily leaving him speechless. For Kankurou to even know about the existence of one of the group's covert agents . . .

But he had to force his own warning out before his brother tried to goad him into a surreptitious manhunt. The words came out clearly, loud enough for the sound to carry to the handful of surrounding shinobi. He wouldn't have anyone say that he'd tried to hide his situation.

"I can't use chakra. If I attempt it, or try to use sand, then Shukaku tries to break free."

Kankurou's grip clenched, then loosened as he pulled back, his face twisted with disbelief. One of the sentries took an involuntary step towards the relative safety of Sand, then began muttering obsequiously as Gaara met his eyes.

It was as if nothing had changed, as if everything had reverted to how it had been years before, as if he were still intentionally a figure best suited for stalking through nightmares. And now he had been forced to forsake any right to be seen as something different.

"Go," he said, addressing the still-apologizing sentry. "Find my advisors and inform them of the situation. They know where I'll be." A second of consideration brought the next decision. "One of you, get word to Temari as well."

With a few nods and grunts of assent, the group burst into motion, bolting for Sand's walls as if he were chasing them.

And any one of them could be . . .

"They don't know about the infiltrator?" he murmured.

Kankurou growled under his breath. "They suspect. It was decided that the situation should be kept as low-key as possible, to avoid causing a panic or driving the person so far into hiding that we'll never out them."

"How'd you find out?"

"There was a slaughter at the gate the day you were taken. We lost twelve shinobi. The wounds on their bodies didn't match the ones from the explosives, or the ones on me."

On him?

His brother shrugged and answered before Gaara could even ask. "I went up against Sasori of the Red Sands and lost. He destroyed my puppets and poisoned me. There wasn't poison involved in any of the other deaths."

Poisons created by Sasori—or even by members of his family—weren't supposed to be survivable, though. Unless . . .

"Our medics had given up." Kankurou gestured towards Sakura, who disrupted the smoky result of the dog's dematerialization as she bounded to her feet. "She saved me, like that." He snapped his fingers for emphasis.

The girl glanced between the two of them as she approached before excitedly relaying her news. "They're alive. Pakkun was assigned to tell us that Kakashi-sensei suspects they're being pursued, and that the Akatsuki will be monitoring the main roads that lead to Sand." She sighed, rolling her eyes in the imagined direction of her distant teammates. "He sends his apologies, since they're going to be late."

At least Naruto was safe, if only for the moment. It was probably too bad that Gaara couldn't say the same for himself, as his fate still unfortunately hung on his council's faith in his control. And as he personally had no faith in his control at that moment . . .

"If I don't come out," he said quietly, "then tell Naruto I said 'Thank you.'"

She blinked, frowning. "What are you talking about?"

Gaara was silent for a moment, aware of how Kankurou shifted at his side. There was no way to avoid the question without ignoring her, and after her efforts to save both him and his brother, he felt she had a right to know.

"For me to become Kazekage, I had to make . . . concessions. The interim council formed to run Sand after the death of my father had to stay on as an advisory panel." The term used by the group came out easily, though he knew their true reason was mainly to keep him in check. "Also, if it should appear that circumstances had put me beyond control, I am to submit to an annulment of any possible threat I'd cause."

Sakura's eyes widened with something close to horror. "They'd kill you?"

"It's not that simple. They'd finish the extraction process, instead."

"And you'd just . . ." Her mouth moved wordlessly for the space of a few seconds. "You'd just let it happen?"

He frowned and folded his arms. She was missing the point. "When I took on the title of Kazekage, I did so with the full understanding that I would one day die in defense of Sand. If I must die in order to protect it from myself, then I accept my duty."

"But . . ." She suddenly set her feet, jaw and fists clenching, the pitch of her voice rising with emotion. "You can't just _give up_ like that!"

The last thing he had energy for was arguing with some silly little chuunin that thought she knew more about what was best for everyone around them than he did. "Would you prefer I break the trust I've spent years building with the people of Sand? That I declare myself perfectly all right even though it's obvious that I'm not, and that I give **_him_** a chance to break free by carrying on as if everything was normal, just because _you said so?"_ He scowled. "I _have _to protect the village."

And it . . . looked like she was angry with him. "It's _not about that._ It's about how, after everything, you'd give up without even a fight." Then she was facing Kankurou as if she expected opposition from him as well. "Would your medics possibly have information on how to deal with a situation like this?"

Kankurou nodded. "The medics here have an entire section on him alone."

Sakura glared furiously at him before glancing back to his brother. "Can you keep him from letting anyone do anything _stupid_ until I get a chance to read through the records?"

The insolent little . . . _"You forget your place,"_ he snarled.

"My _mission_ is to save the Kazekage." Chin up, jaw set, she glared at him again. "So saving the Kazekage from martyring himself is _perfectly_ within my limits."

Kankurou sighed, then stepped in between them. "Fight later, you two."

"If he—"

The puppeteer cut her off. "I'll send someone to find you at the medics' library and let you know where we are. Show them your pass and tell them the situation, and you shouldn't have any problems. Don't waste time."

Sakura nodded sharply, shot Gaara another glare, and then darted for Sand's gate. Kankurou immediately turned, offering a tense, lopsided grin. "Can you walk by yourself?"

Gaara nodded. They both knew it would look better if he arrived at their destination by his own will and under his own power.

Seated stories under the Kazekage's offices, the room had been initially created for holding and interrogating renegade Sand shinobi. But the seals built into the door to hold against more than human strength, and the exceptionally intricate ventilation system which had been designed precisely to keep out stray granules of sand . . . Those additions had been put into place even before his inauguration.

Concessions, he'd called them. _Trap,_ shrieked Shukaku, and berated him for being stupid enough to put his own foot in it.

He barely noticed the stairs under his feet, the shinobi Kankurou sent hurrying towards the medics' libraries. He did notice the explanation, though, for the choice of that particular one: "I saw him on the ground while you were fighting. He cheered for you." Kankurou looked over, jaw clenched and eyes unwavering. "He wasn't the only one. Remember that."

Two flights down, though, the door to the cell stood open, a single light illuminating the seals covering the floor and walls as well as the old teakettle which had once served as Shukaku's prison. The handful of advisers outside of it might or might not want him dead.

But on the ground, his shinobi had cheered for him.

Like Sakura had told him: he couldn't just give up, then.

"Baki." His former instructor nodded and stepped forward. Gaara paused, considering his words. Begging would appear weak. He had the right to a request, though. "Don't make any final decisions until the Leaf chuunin comes back with her findings."

The older man nodded. "I'll do what I can."

And as the door locked behind Gaara, the arguments began.

He paced for a little while, the door and walls muting the voices outside. Kankurou's rose to clarity at one point, righteously indignant. "The only reason he got captured was because he was trying to _defend_ you ungrateful bastards from the Akatsuki!"

An advisor met him, rage for rage. "He was the only reason the Akatsuki were here to begin with!"

Maybe if he paced a little closer to the far wall, he wouldn't have to hear them. That sort of commentary at this point could still provoke Shukaku . . .

Too late. The thought of the tanuki brought him back to the surface . . . though quietly, musingly, even wistfully rather than his usual aggressive tone. _Once . . . I was a leader of men._

A string of animalistic images and feelings followed, compounded with human words. Followers that looked at him as a person and cared for him, a smiling woman that may or may not have been a mate . . . _But then they found out about the illusion._ The next scene to play across Gaara's mental vision was of rejection, the important people turning away from him, and too much confusion due to the strange human emotions to be able to function properly.

_But once I was able to put that aside . . ._

Inundated with another's memories of unleashed destructiveness, Gaara felt his lips twist with amusement not his own.

_They'll do the same to you._

He _did_ ignore that part. He had something much more pressing to consider, something infinitely more precious to occupy his thoughts. The people he'd sworn to protect, that he'd elected to die for, that knew exactly what he was and had been . . . had cheered for him anyway.

From outside, Temari's voice rose in disapprobation. "You know how much civil unrest we had after our father died. Do you think it would do Sand any good to hear that not only is the new Kazekage dead, but that it took his own people to do it?"

Any responses to this were drowned out as he started pacing again.

Time dripped by. His muscles resumed cramping, his headache returned, and he finally had to sit down—as far from both the kettle and the door as possible—to contemplate how Sakura's repairs had apparently only managed to smooth the surface of the damage.

It wasn't until much later that the murmuring from outside picked up again. And amongst them, the voice of his salvation.

"No, you can't do it," Sakura said, her tone quiet but firm. "I have . . . have to talk to him about something first. Let me in."

This couldn't be good, either.

The door opened just enough to allow her to slip through, then locked behind her. He watched her take in the seals on the walls and door and glance over the kettle before finally focusing on him. Then her expression fixed at grim as she knelt beside him.

"They didn't even leave you with any water," she grumbled, then remedied the situation by passing him a bottle. He drank obediently but didn't thank her, though—with his life still in the balance, water was the least of his worries.

"Years ago, that time in the forest, when you turned into . . . _that _. . . I knew it was you." She paused, frowned. "Naruto . . . either didn't recognize you, or couldn't get his mind around how much you'd changed."

So she was here about _that._ Gaara's hands clenched around the bottle. No wonder they'd locked the door after her. They didn't expect her to come out alive.

"But then, after you saved Lee, I started to wonder. And when we heard that you'd decided to become Kazekage . . . I remembered you then, too, and I couldn't . . ." Suddenly agitated, her short gestures described her struggle for words that fit together properly. "I couldn't reconcile you as you were with the kind of person I knew would want to be a kage. Then—" The words came in a rush, her eyes wide and pleading. "I realized that you'd have to have changed _so much_, tried _so hard_ to get them to see you differently." She looked at his hands, then at her own, her voice softening. "That's why I got so angry with you earlier. You tried to save them, to protect them. And you still are. The medics I talked to realize this, and think that much better of you for it. To make it this far, and just throw it away . . ."

"It wasn't—"

"I know it wasn't. Well, at least I do now." She bowed her head, mouth twisting with ruefulness. "I'm sorry."

Gaara sighed. Understanding was a good quality for a Kazekage to practice, Baki'd told him. The quip had promptly been followed by Temari telling him that he needed to practice it as much as possible, to make up for lost time. He figured they were both right. "You meant well. It's all right."

She shook her head. "My mission was to rescue the Kazekage, then to follow orders from Sand. Not to argue with the Kazekage over how to interact with his advisers."

Was she encouraging him to be angry with her? To punish her? No—she was arguing with him over having argued with him before. He scowled. "What are you trying to say?"

"I'd like a chance to fix things. It's your right as Sand's leader to choose what you want done, how to run things here. Not mine. I suppose I could listen to their opinions out there as official orders from Sand, but why would I do that when the Kazekage himself is in here?" She shifted on her knees beside him and suddenly looked up, her expression having nothing to do with regret or subservience and everything to do with trouble. "So? Your orders, Kazekage-sama?"

Sneaky little wretch. Yes, she'd appealed to his efforts, his sense of honor before offering to help him . . . but she'd also been sounding him, testing to get a feel for how much he _had_ changed. And with the prodding . . . She was doing it for the benefit of the people outside: putting her hand in the tanuki's mouth, per se, then waving her intact fingers about as proof of how tame he was.

If she wasn't on his side, he might be angry with her.

"Get me out of here, kunoichi."

She smiled at him then, brilliantly, and turned to delve into the pouch at her side. "The best thing I found was this." The packet in her hands was poured into her other water bottle, offered to him. "They told me that you can't have stimulants, but this works more like a steroid. It'll strengthen you and stabilize your chakra levels, help you to better keep control. The only downside is that we have to wean you off of it over the course of a week."

He could handle that. "How long until I'm back to normal?"

"A few days, still. Your system's suffered a massive shock, and you shouldn't strain yourself while recovering." She smiled as she watched him drink, then chuckled faintly. "I wish all my patients behaved as well as you."

Gaara snorted and handed back the empty bottle as means of response. She shrugged and settled onto the floor beside him. "Now we wait for your chakra levels to stop fluctuating." Without much surprise, he realized that her voice was pitched to carry to his advisers and siblings. "Though I know you won't move until you're sure you won't be a danger to them out there."

Two could play that way. It would do no harm to remind their audience of his reasons for having walked into the room to begin with. "Protecting them, protecting Sand, is what I live for," he stated.

"Just like a kage." Sakura smiled grimly, acknowledging his recognition of her game. "But they wouldn't have let you become one if you'd been intent on being a danger to them, would they?"

That one was blatantly a stab at the dissenters she knew were listening. "If I were anything now like I was then, the people outside would have torn Sand down themselves, with their bare hands if need be, to prevent me from taking control of it."

Another nod, this one accompanied by a small, knowing smile in response to his carefully chosen words. Then she frowned again, watching the teakettle in the corner. "What I don't get is . . . Well, why would they make a point of trying to extract the Shukaku? Wouldn't it be that much easier to steal him while he's in that"—she pointed at the kettle—"than while he's a part of someone that's pretty capable of defending himself?"

"It'd be the only sure way to keep me from doing any additional damage to the village if I was out of control. There's no guarantee that just killing me wouldn't release him."

Her breath hissed as she sucked it in through her teeth. "But . . . The assassination attempts . . ."

"If the possession technique bound Shukaku to my body, then it wouldn't be a threat. Instead, he's bound to my soul. Unless they were forcibly separated through the extraction, there's the possibility that he could escape with my body's death. We're not sure." Fortunately, the tanuki wasn't sure either, which might be the only thing keeping it from actively trying to kill him.

He saw her frown in confusion, then watched her eyes widen and forehead furrow in disbelief. "The Fourth Kazekage would have risked setting a demon loose in the village he was supposed to _protect_ in order to kill his own _son?_"

Gaara nodded.

For a few seconds she was silent, swallowing hard as her eyes flickered over him, the seals on the walls, the door. Then she coiled, coming to a crouch beside him, her voice low as to not carry past his ears and her hand clamping onto his arm to ensure that she had his full attention. "I've studied with the Fifth Hokage for the past few years. I know the history here, about what the Minister of Wind did, about the monetary problems Sand's had because he cut your funding. I know that you don't have the financial means here to create as large a military force as Leaf's. But for your Fourth to have _thrown away_ as many shinobi as I saw in those records . . ." Her voice rose to a normal level though her expression remained hardened. "And they act like _you're_ the one they need to worry about."

"I've got a history with them," he replied. "Though my father may have sent the assassins, I'm still the one that killed them."

Sakura nodded again, her eyes unfocused, apparently lost in thought. "We went over how you've changed already, though." Then, as if suddenly aware of the action, she retracted her hand from where it rested on his arm and glanced away. "Kazekage-sama."

He grimaced. Her sporadically forced air of diplomacy was starting to get on his nerves. And after all, hadn't she already seen him at either spectral end of his absolute worst, yet still been able to fight for his life that tenaciously, defend him that vehemently? Somehow, she'd been able to shove aside the memories of him beyond sanity and beyond control, replacing them instead with the vision of himself as what he'd struggled to achieve. Capable. Deserving. Safe.

"You can call me Gaara."

The room's harsh light did nothing to disguise her blush. As if she could cover it herself through action, she rocked back from her kneel and onto the balls of her feet, examining him with a practiced, critical eye. "Your vital signs have stabilized. You can try channeling chakra now, if you'd like."

Now armed with her affirmative diagnosis, he refused to let fear of what might happen stall him. But for her . . . "Will you leave?"

"No. Just in case something goes wrong, I'll try to pull you out of it."

"You'll go down with me."

Her chin lifted stubbornly. "Tell yourself that I'm just that sure you'll be all right."

And because he was sure that she wasn't going anywhere, he did. With the reach came the expansion of his awareness, knowledge of the tons of sand over them as well as the tiny grains wedged under her toenails. Cautiously, he examined the edges of his ability, searching for any weakness or gap that Shukaku might be able slip through. Yes, he was still weakened, and Shukaku was still muttering something extremely uncomplimentary around the fringes of his consciousness, but otherwise nothing was out of the ordinary.

With an inaudible sigh of relief, he relaxed, half-smiled as she worriedly reached for his arm again. "It's ok. I'm fine."

She dropped her palm to his shoulder anyway, squeezed tightly. He hadn't noticed that she'd been holding her breath until she exhaled. "You know what that means, then?"

He blinked. She bounded to her feet, crossed the room, and slammed her fist against the door hard enough to make the stone walls shudder. "Hey! You can open up now!"

It wouldn't be good for them to see him seated, appearing weakened. Gaara stood and stepped up behind her as she raised her fist again. Before she could take another swing at it, the door opened, revealing a tightly packed audience consisting of his siblings and apprehensive advisers.

Temari turned and flashed someone in the group a mirthless grin. "Told you so." Then she and Kankurou fell into their standard positions at his either side as he emerged, reminding those around them that Sand's best-known team still stood strong as they made their way through the throng and to the stairs.

And then it started.

"Kazekage-sama, the feudal lord Kuroda Ishimaru requests an audience with you to discuss—"

"Kazekage-sama, the plan for the construction on the second training ground needs approval—"

"We never doubted you, Kazekage-sama!"

And all he wanted was a large meal, a barrel of water, and possibly a few quiet hours to himself. Thankfully, it looked like his brother and sister were leading him to his quarters, and like a good number of their followers were splitting away from the group as they walked.

"But the woman swears that the academy students didn't clean her house properly and demands reparations for the damage of—"

"Kazekage-sama, the instructors at the academy are wondering if you'll oversee any of their classes any time soon—"

"Kazekage-sama needs to get cleaned up and changed first," Temari noted to the remaining few as she opened his door.

"Because he stinks," Kankurou added, amicably.

He should definitely be annoyed. But since it had taken that many years for his siblings to behave so openly around him, he didn't do anything more than sigh and shake his head at the maltreatment. But at Temari's side, someone he'd nearly forgotten about voiced her opinion with a short burst of laughter. "If I'd have known you'd get mobbed like this," Sakura giggled, "I'd have asked if you wanted to stay down there a little while longer."

He hadn't wanted to stay in that damned stone cage any longer than was necessary. But when he turned to say something to that effect, to see if she was being sarcastic in any way . . . _No,_ he thought. _Not in the least._ Instead, she met his eyes without any apprehension or fear, as if they were two ordinary people under ordinary circumstances, without his past or the threats to their future. Not an attempt to show off her bravery to others, not an attempt to jab at the dissention, not with a patronizing, condescending, or distant air—just gentle humor and open, innocent warmth.

Caught, Gaara didn't realize he was staring until Kankurou nudged him. "Hey, did we let you out a little too early?"

"No, I'm fine," he replied curtly, and without further ado stepped through his doorway in order to prepare himself for the reinstating of his duties.


	6. Requiem

Divergence from canon, you know the drill, if you've missed the notes by now then I can't help you. There is a major difference being spelled out in this chapter—watch for it.

* * *

That. That in its whole, red-hazed and screaming entirety had been exactly what he was afraid of. Naruto examined his blood-spattered hands, his swollen and abused knuckles with a kind of detached horror, only shaken from his trance by Kakashi's call.

"Naruto." From his spot on the ground meters away, the jounin's visible features were strained yet calm. "Naruto, wash it off."

"Ok," he quietly agreed, his voice sounding hollow to his own ears even as he swallowed hard before blinking dazedly at his surroundings. It took far too long to recognize the lack of immediate water sources. He hadn't seen any streams in the area earlier either, so drinking water would have to do.

The blond reached for his left cuff to roll his sleeve up, then stopped and swore silently to himself. He'd somehow managed to get the blood up to his elbows. But the bright speckles on his skin and the streaks on his clothing from his opponent's desperate, clutching fingers weren't nearly as bad as . . .

It was under his nails, even, darkening and crusting around his cuticles as it dried. His hand jerked, sloshing water from the bottle over his fingers. For a second the reddish trails rinsing away held his attention—then bile rose in the back of his throat, his gut clenching hard enough to hunch him forward. The water wasn't helping nearly fast enough. He needed something else, soap, sand, anything to scrub it from the creases between his fingers, running water to remove the coppery stink so the smell of his own hands didn't send him into paroxysms of dry-heaving. Strange that someone who hadn't even been cut had managed to bleed that much—but then again, Naruto had continued to beat the man until long after he'd stopped moving.

The worst part wasn't that, wasn't the total loss of control, wasn't that he was now covered in Sasori's blood.

It was that he'd loved every second of it.

He clearly remembered a situation from years before, where Gaara had screamed in maniacal glee at the very prospect of killing him and his teammates. Did this reaction make him no better?

Unintentionally, Naruto's gaze shifted back to the puppeteer. Sasori's eyes were still half-open. The missing-nin seemed so much more frail that way, broken and undignified on the ground, the only seemingly real thing about his features being the fear that still remained, the—

His almost-forgotten teammate's question startled him from his thought path. "You've never killed anyone before, have you?"

Tried, yes. Intended to with every cell of his being, yes. Succeeded? Naruto let out a shaky breath and shook his head in denial.

"Iruka can show you what a body looks like, but . . ." Kakashi sighed. "Even he can't prepare you for everything."

Iruka would if he could, though. He'd fuss here, too, bluster a little, then be disappointed that Naruto'd reacted with near-panic to the aftermath of his first kill. The blond smiled faintly at the thought. Iruka would understand, of course—he always did. Then he'd huff, offer what comfort he could, and try to talk him through—

The next epiphany brought him up short. Like always, Kakashi was brilliant. Though poisoned, weakened, and with his own life in the balance, the jounin had managed to distract him before he could crack. Succumbing to his own inexperience and descending into panic while out there and still being hunted would be a death sentence.

Kakashi nodded, indicating that he recognized his success, then spoke. "I'll get the graves dug."

"Kakashi-sensei, you shouldn't, not with the poison—"

"Kuchiyose no jutsu!"

The team of summoned dogs crowded around the kneeling gray-haired man, giving an indication of how he intended to accomplish the task. "We don't have the time to do it ourselves," shrugged the other. His visible features scrunched in a way that indicated a sheepish smile, belied by his flushed skin. Faintly, Naruto heard Pakkun murmuring something about how Sakura and Gaara had made it back to Sand safely and oh, what had Kakashi gotten himself into this time? Kakashi responded with a few unintelligible words, and the dogs immediately turned to begin digging.

Naruto watched for the space of a few seconds before speaking. "Kakashi-sensei . . . Does it get any easier?"

Kakashi glanced over the corpses, his expression enviably unmoved. Then, as if he'd forgotten it, he reached up to pull his forehead protector down over his Sharingan eye. "No. Not if you let yourself think about it."

The blond let out a sigh, then nodded thoughtfully.

To his right, Kakashi lifted himself heavily to his feet; then, grimacing but still respectful, lifted Sasori's corpse. Naruto could only glance at the battered, distorted features before he had to look down, jaw clenching and eyes squeezed shut. _Something else to think about, _he reminded himself. The graves would need some kind of marker. Though the thin soil he sat on was liberally studded with pieces and outcroppings of rock, it would take entirely too long to chisel proper epitaphs. Branches would have to do. A brief search revealed likely candidates . . . but even as he reached for one, his instructor's voice reached him.

"But . . . If you don't let yourself think about it, and keep on going like you haven't just snuffed another person out of existence . . . Then you lose something. Your basic humanity. It might become easier then . . ." The man drew a labored breath. "But it's not worth it."

With a sharp nod, Naruto drew a kunai, using his free hand to steady a properly-sized tree limb.

The first marker was easy enough. _Sasori, traitor._ Naruto nodded in grim satisfaction as he carved the words into the soft wood. But for Chiyo . . . He stopped, unsure, having only finished her name.

_Chiyo, killed by her own family._

No.

_Chiyo: She fought well._

Well enough to damage Sasori to the point that he'd apparently had to take care of himself rather than build weapons into her and come at them full-force . . . But Naruto really had no idea of how well she'd fought. That wouldn't do either.

_Chiyo_—_she will be missed._

No. It seemed egotistical, coming from someone that had barely known her. He didn't want to insult her memory. It even seemed an insult to give her so impermanent a marker, though Sand would probably want to recover her body for the proper ceremonies in their own country. There, she'd get a fitting monument, maybe have her name carved into an obelisk like the one Leaf had to honor their dead, where her memory would stand even with the ninjas who had fallen years before.

_Maybe,_ he thought, _some day, we won't have to measure time by what we've lost._

Because if that was it, if all anything any of them had ever struggled for only boiled down to a few words carved in stone . . .

Beside Chiyo's open grave, Kakashi coughed faintly, hunching over as if in pain.

He wouldn't accept it.

If Sasori had used the same poison on him that he'd used on Kankurou, Naruto had three days to get them both to Sand and safety. _If. _

They were being hunted, and one of their possible pursuers was elite enough to have been made the captain of an ANBU squad at an age where Naruto was just starting to consider his second chuunin exam. Not just that—Itachi was definitely bearing a grudge after his clone's and his teammate's defeats earlier. If he was anything like his brother . . . Naruto bit his lip. Sasuke was never one to let things go easily. Running straight to Sand would in all likelihood be running directly into a trap.

His panic would get them both killed.

Painstakingly, Naruto forced himself to draw a slow breath, to exhale just as carefully. His feet made no sound as he approached Kakashi, but his teacher looked up anyway, exuding disappointment as he delivered the statement, "I don't think I can run."

"It's ok. I'll get you there." The jounin was too much taller than him; he'd have to carry him over his shoulders. But before that . . . His jacket was filthy, so it wouldn't do, but there were spare shirts in his bag. He didn't want to think about Chiyo getting dirt on her face when they finally filled in the graves. Kneeling, trying to ignore the painful something clenching in his chest, Naruto carefully stretched down and draped the fabric over her head and upper body. The other shirt covered Sasori. Then, steeling himself, shaking with some mix of guilt and shame, he sank his still-bloodstained hands into the piles of loose soil and began to cover the bodies with earth.

It was all he could really do.

Once it was finally done and the wooden markers were set in place, he turned back to his listless instructor. The man was sweating even as he shivered, unresponsive to the sound of his own name. "Damn it," Naruto muttered. He'd taken too long. Even so, he had one more thing to do before he could collect his teammate and start running.

"Kage bunshin no jutsu!"

Naruto had no idea what Itachi—or any of the other Akatsuki—could be capable of. It was definitely best to make all of the tracks identical. His clones milled around them, effectively muddling all footprints as he lifted Kakashi. With a chorus of shouts, half of their number transformed into gray-haired jounin before slumping across the shoulders of the remainder.

The original blond nodded grimly, in satisfaction. "Ready?"

A dozen voices called out in affirmation, and in one motion the group launched themselves in different directions. In a few hours, each would split into their own series of clones, further confusing pursuers . . . And he'd get Kakashi to safety, because damn it, he refused to see any more graves dug if he could do anything to prevent it.


	7. Shift

So much for consistently-sized chapters.

* * *

Gaara left his clothing in a pile on his bathroom floor as he stepped into the small shower and wondered how many times the material would need to be cleaned before he'd want to wear it again. Thankfully, his skin was easier to clean than fabric, and it only took a few minutes before he'd finished washing up. It had to be an improvement that he only felt the need to drink a few handfuls of water before turning the faucets off, he decided. Then he sighed and allowed himself to sink wearily to the floor. In a little bit he had to go out and appear untouched by the events of the past few days, had to meet his duties and Sand's problems with all the tenacity the villagers had come to expect from him . . . But for the moment he could sit, and rest, and imagine that he was a normal person with only normal responsibilities.

Like it ever worked.

He emerged from the bathroom to find Kankurou waiting on his couch, absently watching the late afternoon sky through the windows. His brother glanced over how his new pants hung a little too loosely over his hipbones and frowned, but shook the expression away quickly enough. "It's good to have you back."

Gaara nodded. He crossed over to his wardrobe, sparing a second to glance about the room and verify that nothing of his had been touched save the stack of unimportant papers on his coffee table. "It's good to be back." It would be better once the public had seen as well as been informed that he was definitely still alive. The robes of his office were in his hands before he realized he'd made a conscious decision to pick them. "You said there's a spy somewhere in Sand."

"Yeah."

"How are you sure?"

Kankurou scowled. "The number of bodies at the gates corresponded to the number of the guards stationed that morning, even though some of the dead there were mauled beyond recognition. But I got there right after the missing-nin that took you landed, and I didn't see anyone else outside the walls." He shook his head. "We don't have anyone here that could run fast enough to be completely out of sight in the possible time frames, and the guards haven't seen anyone attempting to sneak out in the days since."

Gaara nodded. Half the reason Sand was so far out in the desert was because the flat landscape rendered it nearly impossible for someone to approach—or leave—undetected. "And nothing suspicious has been reported otherwise?"

"The usual. Petty thievery, a few break-ins."

Nothing he could go on. Gaara scowled again, reminded of his split lips by how the skin there pulled unpleasantly, then shrugged into his clothing.

"Want the hat?" Kankurou joked from behind him.

"No." He'd only worn it for his inauguration. Just before the ceremony, he'd seen himself in a mirror and realized how much the article made him looked like his father—and promptly vowed to never wear it again. Kankurou still thought he refused it because it looked strange, though. He'd never bothered to enlighten him. "Where's Temari, and Sakura?"

"They went to get Sakura cleaned up. They should be here soon."

Maybe, once he'd gotten the most major problems straightened out, he'd be able to take a few minutes to figure out what to do with the Leaf kunoichi. "We'll meet them."

And with only a few minutes' walk, they did. Temari marched down the hall as though she was going to an execution, with Sakura hurrying alongside her and a worried advisor trailing behind. He knew what was coming even as she halted in front of him, her hands clenching around her fan.

"She," Temari said, jerking her chin towards Sakura, "said that they're probably still being hunted out there."

"Kazekage-sama," interjected the advisor. "We can't compromise our forces at this time. The other villages may have heard about what happened by now, and—"

Initially, he hadn't quite known how much of a juggling act his post would be. In this, though, there wasn't room for bargaining. "Then don't think of it as the forces being compromised, Nakashima. Think of it as securing our territory." Temari's mouth quirked into a sharp, tight-lipped smile at his words as he turned to face her, and Sakura sighed, relieved. "Take two teams. The Akatsuki will possibly be laying traps along the main roads and borders. If you find any of Leaf's ninjas, get them back here, but _do not_" —he felt Kankurou shift beside him— "confront any of the Akatsuki should you find them first."

She nodded sharply and started to turn, but he spoke again to stop her. "_I'm_ asking you, Temari."

All of them had learned proper protocol and obedience as the Kazekage's children—and to promptly disregard everything they'd learned if they felt the reasons for complying were insufficient. But if he could use their new strings of attachment, could let her know that this wasn't just an order to be blown off . . .

When she looked back over her shoulder to meet his eyes and nod, he knew that she understood.

"Kazekage-sama—" came the protest.

"Would you rather I leave them out there?" he replied.

Kankurou folded his arms across his chest and arched an eyebrow. Temari paused almost mid-stride to fix Nakashima with a no-nonsense glare. The combined threat made Gaara sure that he'd be called in and reprimanded for all of their behavior, but achieved the intended goal. The man in front of him bowed his head in acquiescence and murmured an apologetic "No, Kazekage-sama" before retreating. Temari watched his departing back for the space of two heartbeats; then she nodded to her brothers, gripped onto Sakura's shoulder reassuringly, and followed the man's lead.

Kankurou was the first to move afterwards, fluidly transitioning from deadly serious to easily affable as he stepped forward. "Well, what now?"

Sakura smiled at the prompt, then turned to Gaara. "You're hungry?"

"Yeah," he answered distractedly. Bullying his council at least went over a bit better when it was _all_ of the Fourth Kazekage's children doing the bullying. That way, it seemed less like he was just being stubbornly unreasonable.

"Good. The medicine I gave you needs something to work from too, you know? You can't just rebuild the muscle mass you lost off of water alone." She glanced around them. "So . . . What's the fastest way to get food?"

"This way," Kankurou grinned, and commenced their procession. Pacing along beside his brother, Gaara decided that it really had been easier years before, when he could bully his way into almost whatever he wanted with a few death threats. But he'd elected to go about things civilly, so the annoyance of a few long-winded explanations would simply have to be borne.

To his other side, Sakura's examination of his features drew his attention. "You'll be on a liquid diet for a little while, until I'm sure you're able to handle normal food again."

"Mhm," he replied, and resumed watching the hallway ahead of them. There was certainly a pile of paperwork waiting for him on his desk. He'd pick some up on his way back to his apartments, in order to have something to occupy his time that night.

Sakura peered over at him as if waiting for a further response, then continued cheerily. "It won't be too long. Only about three weeks."

_What?_

Light laughter met his incredulous expression. "I'm kidding! You should be ready for normal food soon if you aren't already, but you still need more liquids."

"What're we going for, then?" Kankurou asked.

Sakura continued in the same, nerve-gratingly upbeat tone. "Soup. Well, more like broth. Watered-down broth." Green eyes met his, blinked. "What?"

He honestly had no idea if she was rattling him to get a certain reaction or if it was all for her own amusement. "Nothing." If she intended to play nurse with his meals, though, he certainly couldn't go out—especially if other villages could be sending shinobi in to check on his well-being.

Well, it looked like he'd just have to show off how healthy he was to them a little later. "C'mon," he said as he turned around. "There're kitchens in the basement of the building."

"That's weird, that everything's in here," Sakura mused. "The offices, your rooms, the food . . ."

"When the buildings were built, there were still problems with sandstorms." Gaara gestured one-handedly towards the hallway around them. "It was easier for Sand's architects to put everything they needed in one building than to make the necessary people go outside to get here."

If she didn't stop watching him, she might walk into a wall. "There _were_ still problems, as in not really anymore?"

"I take care of them now."

She smiled warmly, her next step bringing her perhaps a few inches closer to him, and if he didn't stop watching what she was doing then _he'd _be the one walking into something. "That's good of you, to do that for them."

"We do what we can with what we have," he replied, focusing on their path again. "It's no different than you being a medic. It's your ability, so you use it."

"Depends what you're using it for." The following silence drew his attention, and he unintentionally looked back to her as they reached their destination. Was she bringing their past fight up _again?_

Sakura started when she realized how he was watching her, then again as she guessed at what he was thinking. "No! Not that. Kabuto. He's Orochimaru's personal medic-nin and right-hand man. I only saw him fight once, while he was undercover, but from what I've been told, his abilities are outstanding." She shook her head for emphasis, eyes widening and lips pressing together.

The people who might have used the chosen kitchen for their evening meals had finished with it earlier, leaving the room empty but for the faint scent of their meals. As they walked in, Gaara came to a decision. Kabuto's master had been a member of the Akatsuki once. "Tell me about Kabuto. Orochimaru, too." Maybe he'd be able to put something together, glean a bit of information he hadn't heard before. While he hadn't borne much affection for his father, it would be a good thing to collect any data that might prove useful should his shinobi ever have the chance to face the killer of Sand's Fourth Kazekage. He might even find out something about the Akatsuki that could be used against them.

And as it turned out, it was a good idea. The girl talked informatively as she worked, describing what she knew of the Sannin battle as she dug through pots, what she'd learned about Kabuto's past as she sliced vegetables wafer-thin. The first bowl she put in front of Gaara was the promised watered-down broth, with a cup of water on the side. Kankurou's, of course, was more solids than soup, served with an admonishment that he hadn't taken proper care of himself since Sakura had left, that he hadn't been resting enough and definitely hadn't been eating properly. The puppeteer shrugged her reproach off, though. "I've been on the night's watch lately. My sleep schedule's off."

"Well, it'd better get back on soon!" She shook a ladle at him for emphasis, spattering a stray drop of broth on the table. "That's not healthy."

Rather than pay any more attention, Gaara focused on finishing his soup. Sometimes, he decided as he set the empty bowl down, it still felt entirely too much like he was irreparably aberrant and would continue to spend his time watching people interact around him rather than include him.

"Or what?" Kankurou challenged laughingly.

Occupied with watching his hands clasped on the table in front of him, Gaara blinked when the second bowl was shoved into view. This one looked stronger than the first, and actually featured the vegetables she'd been slicing earlier. And with a light thump, his cook plunked herself and her meal down beside him as she answered his brother. "Or I'll pay attention to the people that need it more, of course." Then she'd turned to him again, smiling in that same good-natured, innocent way. "How do you feel?"

He considered for a second. Showered, mostly hydrated, somewhat rested, and with a warm meal in his stomach . . . "Good."

"No more headaches, cramping, nausea—"

She was definitely tenacious. He half-smiled at her quizzing, pleased that she at least had a ninja's determination if not the proper emotional control. "I'm fine."

"Good." There was a pause as her hand reached up towards his face again, skimmed the air beside his cheek. "You should do that more."

He blinked.

"Smile," she explained.

Yeah, she was definitely crazy. But at least she was complimentary, even if her friendly overtures did seem a little too out of place, a little too familiar.

He went back to work on finishing his soup, the corners of his mouth defiantly remaining tilted upward, as Kankurou broke out with muffled snorts and Sakura turned on him instead. "What?" she demanded. "I know there's no point in it. Besides, he already told me that I'm not his type—"

Kankurou wheezed. _"He_ has a type?"

"He said so, at least."

Right after he'd told her to take her clothes off, too. His brother didn't need that kind of ammunition. And maybe he wasn't up for this "included" thing after all.

_Wait,_ he thought. _No point in __**what?**_

Was she supposed to be_ flirting_ with him?

Rather than get caught staring again, he opted to glower into his half-empty bowl. And on top of everything, she'd diverted the topic of conversation away from Orochimaru before they'd really even gotten beyond Kabuto.

If this was going to be an example of her tenancy in Sand, he'd probably be better off sending her home. But then she'd be a lone ninja that would have to sleep sometime on the three-day trip back to Leaf, and . . . No, it was probably safest to keep her there. Besides, Naruto would be happy if Gaara was thoughtful enough to keep her safe.

"It's starting to get late." Kankurou grimaced as he spoke, then slurped down the remains of his soup and stood. "I should get ready for my watch."

Sakura stood as well, watching the jounin intently as he started washing his bowl in a nearby sink. "Why'd they give you a watch that would mess up your sleep schedule, anyway?"

Kankurou looked over his shoulder with an all-too-calm smile. "Advisor Shun made the mistake of saying that my brother hadn't been _made_ to be a Kazekage, just a weapon. I'd just gotten out of the hospital and was behind him when he said it." He shrugged. "Temari stopped me before I could hit him too many times."

Gaara sighed. He knew his brother well enough to understand that any lectures on controlling his temper would be wasted, and settled for a tired "Kankurou . . ."

"You're my brother, so I'll defend you." The statement was delivered in a tone that said Gaara would be able to push the administrative building down with his bare hands before he could budge his brother's opinion.

"You know better."

"Yeah," Kankurou grinned. "But it gives me time to build a new puppet."

And now, on top of everything, he'd have to watch Shun as well, to be sure that dissent wasn't treason in disguise.

In the following silence, Sakura leaned over to him, her voice soft. "Hey, finish that up, okay? You need the food, and the energy." He nodded and complied. When he looked up from the just-emptied bowl, though, he caught her covering her yawn with the back of her hand. "Looks like I need the energy too, huh?" she smiled.

And _she_ was the one fussing at Kankurou about getting enough rest? "When's the last time you slept?"

Her hand went to her forehead bashfully. "Um . . . a few days ago."

It was definitely a good thing that he hadn't sent her out in that condition, then. But since she otherwise seemed alert . . . He'd seen this sort of effect before. "You've been taking stimulants," he accused. "You're crashing."

She covered her blush by taking his bowl to the sink, where Kankurou relieved her of it. "Yeah."

Kankurou snorted amusedly as he scrubbed. "It's not a good thing for a medic to be a hypocrite, kunoichi."

"I'm not a hypocrite!" she protested. "I just had things to get done."

"Yeah, yeah." Kankurou glanced over towards him, then back at the pink-haired girl. "Will he be all right if we lock you in your guest quarters for the night?"

"Yeah," she murmured, then turned to Gaara, green eyes not flinching away from his though her cheeks were still pink. "Just . . . drink lots of water, and if you get hungry, don't eat anything really salty or rich."

"You act like I've been starved for weeks," he noted.

"Well . . ." She glanced away, her fingers twisting together. "I'm trying to be careful, to make sure nothing can go wrong. Naruto would want me to, you know?"

He nodded and stood. One way or another, it seemed everything came back to the Uzumaki—and as long as the Uzumaki came back, he wouldn't complain. In the meantime, though, he could keep the other boy's precious person safe.

"I'll walk you to your quarters," he offered. It would kill two birds with one stone, after all—she'd get to her accommodations safely and he'd be seen. Sakura blinked at the overture, startled, then nodded assent before wishing Kankurou a good night. A few people looked up at them as they entered the street, flashing smiles or nods of recognition though some just as quickly returned to what they were doing. He made sure to return all sentiments in kind.

"You know," Sakura started, breaking their silence, "it wouldn't be very bright if they didn't expect you to eventually become Kazekage. If the Shukaku was sealed into you in order to make you Sand's strongest ninja—"

She hadn't used the words "create" or "experiment." He appreciated their omission more than she could know.

"Then . . . Well, there's not very many requirements for the job."

He considered his words for a few paces before settling on ones as innocuous yet honest as possible. "My father wasn't exactly known for being reasonable."

"I kinda figured." She looked down as if suddenly realizing the temerity of her statement and blushed. "Sorry about that, I—"

"I bear no loyalties to my father." Belatedly, he reflected that he might not have offered to walk her anywhere if he'd known how much she'd be verbally stepping on his toes.

"Still, though. I shouldn't have." The way her voice changed meant that she was trying to lighten the mood, switch the subject. "At least you're in Sand again now, and feeling better, and in control of . . ." The barest of pauses. "_Everything_, so things can get back to normal."

And she'd just failed abysmally.

He stopped, stared at her in disbelief. "What?"

"You know . . . Normal? You here, us there, the alliance—"

"Nothing here—and that includes the alliance—will be the same for a long time, if at all."

If her expression was any indication, she obviously didn't understand. And he didn't want to have to spell it out, didn't want to have to let her know exactly how much trouble the village was in and how many problems had been brought to light by the advent of the Akatsuki. But she'd known about the minister, the financial problems . . . So she had to know _why._ Right?

_Damn it all._

"Sand isn't located near any cities. There isn't a forest at our walls, isn't soil fit for farming. We've had to import almost everything you see here." He gestured at the buildings around them with one hand. "To do that, we have to have the safest roads to draw the best artisans, the best markets to draw the vendors and make it worth farmers' while to bring us food. And to do that, we have to be strong, have to be seen as strong by those around us.

"The losses we suffered even in the attack on Leaf were enough that we had to surrender unconditionally. Match that with the dead shinobi from the failed assassination attempts on me and the dead from the slaughter at the gate . . ." He didn't have to spell out the results of that part. His hand dropped to his side as he turned to face her. "Then, this happened. None of our medics, some of whom have been training for longer than you've been _alive_, were able to save Kankurou—but you were, in minutes. None of Sand's ninjas were able to pursue the Akatsuki who had taken me—but your team was. No one in Sand was able to do a _single _thing but sit and wait for this to play out, to be helpless while my fate rested in the hands of strangers from a rival village." This time he heard the bitterness he felt leak through to his voice, emerging in sharp words and harsh accentuations. "This tells the people of Sand, the people that I'm responsible for, that the Minister is vindicated in having cut our funding and directed possible missions to Leaf. This tells them that they as a village are worth _nothing_ in comparison to a handful of your shinobi."

Wide green eyes stared at him, her features registering vague horror. She apparently hadn't thought of the repercussions of her village's well-meaning actions.

Scowling, he tried to soften his tone even as he drove home his final point, his warning, a good part of his reason for walking her halfway across Sand himself rather than sending her with a random shinobi. "This means that there will be people here who will hate Leaf, and thus hate you."

She was quiet, looking at the nearest building's walls, then down at their feet. Finally she spoke. "Does this mean you hate me, too?"

He glared in the direction of the apartments and crossed his arms. "It means I have work to do."

Sometime during the rest of the walk, it clicked. She wasn't worried about what he as the Kazekage thought of her. Sakura would have recognized that she was in a strange environment and amongst an unfamiliar public. It would be natural for her to affiliate herself with the people she knew, for safety against unknown threats as well as for the companionship. And if he happened to be one of the people she knew, and she took cues from his siblings on how to treat him . . .

It was a simple defense mechanism, one he'd been denied many times before. He wondered if she even knew she was doing it.

Sakura didn't say anything to disturb his thoughts, wrapping her arms around herself and shivering as the encroaching night brought the desert's standard precipitous drop in temperature. She waited until they got to the door before breaking their silence. "Here." Cool fingertips caught his hand, pressed a packet into his palm. "This is your next dose. Mix it with warm water and drink it when you get home."

He nodded. "You didn't get a chance to tell me much about Orochimaru today. You can do it tomorrow. I'll send Kankurou for you at six."

"Ok." She was silent, as though lost in thought, then looked up at him, a faint, sad smile ghosting across her lips. "Have a good night, Gaara."

"Yeah." He paused and glanced at the folded paper in his hand, then looked back up and decided that he had no reason to not be civil. "You too."

Walking away, he certainly hoped that she wasn't still brooding about any possible hostilities of Sand's villagers towards her. Being upset for things she couldn't control was nonsensical. The next thing he'd know, he'd be hearing about Leaf's shinobi apologizing to the people they had to kill in missions.

It had become cold enough quickly enough that the streets were nearly deserted, save for the few on their own missions who exchanged brief greetings with him or hurried past, their gazes blatantly averted. Gaara didn't expect them to necessarily be grateful, though. As his one advisor had stated: he'd saved the village, but the only reason the threat had existed was because he'd been the target.

He slowed, looked up. This was around the spot where he'd fallen. By now, the sand that usually composed his gourd had blown everywhere . . . but he knew he could call it back quickly enough if need be.

Yes. The air was chilly, the raising wind pattered sand against his legs, and . . . there were three people following him. And he knew what they wanted.

A glance around him showed that the street seemed clear. He stopped, waited, breathing slowly and trying absently to quell the rush that usually preceded bloodshed in favor of logic. If they were making a move this early, this soon after his return, then he may have underestimated the hostilities some villagers were bound to still hold.

"I know you're out there," he called, and they came forward, slipping shadowlike around him with the stealthy footfalls of those that knew themselves to be guilty. But their reasons didn't matter. His fingers flexed against his arms as he surveyed them, their still-displayed forehead protectors identifying them as his own villagers. He'd try to remember their features for later.

"What're you looking for?" one sneered.

He was _checking_ to see if there was anyone else around that he'd missed, that might get caught up in the fray. It wouldn't do to accidentally kill a passerby or ally if they got in the way and he mistook their intent. But the area seemed clear. Now: no matter what Shukaku might want or however much he himself wanted to, it would be for the best if he finished things quickly. Assassins didn't deserve to live, and—

"Should we have brought the girl's head to keep his attention?" murmured another.

And he'd left Naruto's important person, with her smiles and social stumblings and the easy way she talked to him, exhausted and alone in a hostile city, with no one to defend her and with the people in front of him alluding to the possibility that she may already be dead.

He straightened further, nostrils flaring as if he could catch the scent of her blood from that far away, eyes widening. If he'd made that terrible of a mistake—

"Looks like that got his attention," the man to his left said.

The heat in his chest was surely rage and surely his own, fueled by his deep breaths and made manifest by his bared teeth and the swirls of sand that picked up around him. The latter gave his would-be assassins pause, and the middle one called out nervously. "But didn't he tell us that he couldn't use sand?"

He was almost certain none of them had been at the gates that morning, though. So someone else, someone on the inside, was sending would-be assassins against him with whatever misinformation was handy . . .

"Who's 'he'?" The growl strained his throat, and sand skimmed against his cheek confusedly when the way his mouth twisted reopened a split in his lower lip. "Who told you that?" The three didn't answer, though. And by that point . . .

"It doesn't matter, anyway," he snarled. His thoughts were shooting by too quickly for him to make sense of them, though his gut instincts remained: to eliminate the threat before it could cause him any harm. There were surely unanswered questions, but he was certain he'd figure it all out in due time. What mattered was how a wall of sand started to form around them all to block off any escape, moving almost independently of his will.

Actually, a little _too_ close to independently.

Damn it, he'd better make this fast.

"_C'mon."_


	8. Gone to Ground

It was early evening when Naruto slowed to a halt, carefully setting his burden down. Kakashi'd been fading in and out of consciousness for hours, alternating between moments of clarity and extended periods of silence. "We'll camp here for a little bit," Naruto murmured, speaking more to hear the sound of his own voice than as an explanation. "We'll get some rest and get out before anyone realizes we've been here." The jounin's visible eye flickered open as Naruto stuffed a pack under his head for a makeshift pillow, but he didn't respond otherwise.

_Not good,_ Naruto thought; but it wouldn't do to voice his fears in front of Kakashi, lest they prove infectious. It also wouldn't do to stay this tense. He exhaled slowly and considered the past day's events. He'd run, yeah, with his instructor a dead weight across his shoulders, but he'd also set multitudes of clones across the country.

And someone, somewhere out there, was determinedly picking them off one by one.

He'd—well, they'd—never gotten a glimpse of the attacker before some damage was done and the clones blinked out of existence. At first he'd told himself that it had been an accident . . . but the last to fall had managed to transfer a visual of a kunai imbedding itself in the back of its partner before it too was snuffed out.

He'd already known he was being hunted, though.

Between maintaining and monitoring the clones, he had to worry about staying both alert and functional. Jiraiya once taught him how to maintain his alertness with chakra. The technique had definitely come in handy during this mission, though having a moderately clear head didn't help alleviate any of his worry and did nothing to keep his stamina up. Naruto sighed, tilting his head back to observe what parts of the sky weren't obscured by the leafy canopy. That was probably what Gaara'd done—boosted himself with Shukaku's chakra, using his demon's strength to keep it from destroying him.

There was probably irony somewhere in there, if he was using the same technique that kept Gaara alive while on a mission to rescue the Sand-nin—but he wasn't sure how to go about finding it. There was definitely some in Gaara having gotten to the rank of kage before him, though. Or maybe that was just strangeness. Naruto sniffed at his musings and smiled faintly as he shrugged off his backpack. He'd never been good at defining stuff, anyway.

But it had been his idea first, he decided petulantly. Too bad he'd probably get in trouble if he kicked the Kazekage's ass for stealing it. But hey, he hadn't been around Leaf very much lately. Maybe, if he stuck around for a few more years instead of leaving for more training with Jiraiya, he'd—

"I'm sorry," Kakashi mumbled thickly.

_What?_

Naruto blinked at his companion confusedly, then shifted over to sit beside him. "It's ok, Kakashi-sensei," he encouraged, patting the man on the arm. "Everyone gets wounded, right? Once we get back to Sand then Sakura'll be able to fix you in no time, and—"

Kakashi's fever-heated hand groped for his, the jounin's grip still strong. "I'm sorry. I tried to save him, but . . ." The next words were barely more than guilt-laced mutters.

What he was saying didn't make any sense. Unless . . . Naruto's gut wrenched. "Kakashi-sensei, everything's ok. You're delirious."

"I didn't want it to happen." Kakashi's hand reached for his own face, clawing his forehead protector away from his Sharingan eye. "I didn't _want_ this. I never got a chance to tell you, either of you."

Delirium could give away their position, but fever could kill people—Iruka-sensei had told him so once. He had to keep Kakashi's temperature from getting too high, had to keep the man _quiet_, and most importantly had to keep his teacher hydrated. Aside from that, he had at most two and a half days to get to Sand, to keep his own path precisely random enough to not draw attention and far enough away from the trail where his clones were being snuffed out of existence that he wouldn't be found. And no matter how much he hated it, this wasn't something he could punch his way out of.

He wasn't the problem. He'd been trained to deal with this sort of situation, to confidently lead a deadly game of tag with any number of assailants, any of whom could be an Uchiha. The problem lay in all of the people around him.

Gaara, broken; Sasori, a pulverized mess of a human being; the ease with which Deidara's muscles had torn from bone . . . And now, Kakashi's fevered confessions to someone when the man had said years before that everyone he'd ever loved was dead.

No, he couldn't hate the dead for dying or the wounded for their weakness; but more than anything, he hated their _fragility_.

"I didn't mean for it to happen. I didn't know, didn't _think_—"

"Shh, Kakashi-sensei." Water would hydrate and quiet him, and Kakashi couldn't drink while lying down. Naruto lifted him to a sitting position, then settled behind him to hold the older man up. There was only one way this could be done. Fixing his eyes on a point directly in front of them, Naruto uncapped the bottle and tugged his instructor's mask down. His fingers found the line of the older man's mouth, then cupped his jaw as to not spill the water he lifted to the dry, unresponsive lips. The liquid's touch provoked a reaction; Kakashi drank until the bottle was empty, then gave a barely audible sigh as his chin sank to his chest.

Far away, two different sets of clones made campfires. One's deliberately went out of control, and three more immediately copied it, setting their surroundings on fire. Sure that the distractions would hold up for long enough to thoroughly confuse their pursuit, Naruto let out a sigh of his own and allowed himself to relax a little.

"It'll be all right," he murmured again.

Kakashi didn't answer. Naruto listened to the steady sound of the older man's breathing for a few seconds before he realized the jounin was asleep.

At least Gaara would be back in Sand by then. He'd have his siblings to keep him company, and Sakura to take care of him. Sakura would be able to fix him with no problems, too. She wouldn't hold a grudge that Gaara had all but permanently crippled Lee, had tried to crush her to death, had almost killed Sasuke. Right?

Sadly, Naruto decided, it might be the last bit that would cause her the most unease.

But no; Sakura would be fine, and Gaara would be fine. He, though, on his knees in the cool dirt of the forest floor as he held his unconscious instructor upright . . . He hadn't felt this alone in years.


	9. Brace

The door to her room tore off of its hinges like paper and shattered explosively, sand-borne shards cascading to the ground below and street around him. Gaara crashed through the entryway before the air was even clear, searching for signs of a struggle, for a body—and Sakura met him just as swiftly, a kunai in her hand. And the weapon, her clenched jaw and fists . . . they were the only things to register through his near-panicked rage, and almost proved to be her undoing. It took everything he had to restrain his bloodlust, to stagger to a halt and stop himself from meeting her head-on, from destroying her as easily as he had the room's flimsy protection from the terrors outside.

When she recognized him, the weapon fell to the ground with a short, metallic clatter, her hands rising defensively instead as her eyes widened with terror.

"You can't stay here," he rasped—then his knees gave out and he dropped to the floor, weakened and lightheaded from his exertions, reaching for his head as if his hands could block out Shukaku's exultant shrieks.

_Can't,_ he commanded himself, taking deep gulps of air and repeating the thought as if the words could override his driving need for destruction. _**Can't.** Not her, not now._

_She's a threat. _The tanuki's simple response combined with images of the weapon, her advance. _She intended to_—

"Gaara!"

_No. _He shuddered, giving a ragged gasp._ Can't._

_Can't_—

Something . . . warm, soft, was pressed against his cheek. There was something else weighing down his robes on his right. Pressure at his sides and shoulders. Sounds.

"Gaara, Gaara it's ok, it's all right, _please_, Gaara, _snap out of it_—"

But it wasn't all right.

_She's in danger_—

_She tried to kill you, you idiot!_

Sand began to work its way between them, trying to pick her away. She clung tighter. The softness against his cheek was that of her own, the sound was her speaking almost directly into his ear. "Please just calm down, just breathe, it'll be ok, it'll—"

Gaara jerked, staring around wildly. There still might be someone . . . The sand that had been twining around her wrists and arms stopped shifting, then blasted away from her into the area around them, shooting under the bed, upending an empty clothes chest, and shattering something in the adjacent bathroom. Sakura clamped onto him tighter at the flurry of motion and sounds, her cheek shifting to press against his throat as her fingertips dug into his shoulders. She gave a small, frightened squeak as his hands gripped her upper arms in turn—and then, as if realizing his fears, she jerked upright to look him in the eye and started talking again.

"Gaara, there's _no one here."_

He stared back at her, unbelieving. What would she know, she was just a chuunin, just—

"Please, Gaara, listen to me. You're supposed to be _better than this_, you're not supposed to _do this_ anymore."

No . . . He wasn't. And by the way she'd dove to his defense, she'd apparently convinced herself that he wouldn't harm her for the attempt. And . . . Her dragging him from the water after his struggle with Shukaku. Her rubbing his neck, trying to calm him even as his self-disgust and temper resulted in her bleeding. Her, stories under Sand, and the worry on her face as she risked her life in case he needed saved.

_Supposed to be **better than this . . .**_

Not just that she'd said it, but that she believed it as well. And his sand would have recognized the intent and blocked her from reaching him had she actually meant to harm him . . . So no, not a threat. Just warm.

His grip loosened against her arms and he closed his eyes, attempting to regain some sort of composure. Shakily, hesitantly, Sakura loosened her grip on him as well, so that her fingertips didn't dig quite so hard into his shoulders and so she didn't press quite so tightly against him. That was good—it gave him room to breathe, to find his equilibrium. It didn't help in the least bit that the most distinct scent was still blood; it reminded him of his recent actions, reminded him that he could crush her just as easily as the would-be assassins outside, and that with her trust and her innocence and her proximity she wouldn't even have the time to see it coming.

"Gaara," she murmured, and her hands flattened out, palms pressing gently against his shoulders as her head lowered again in exhausted relief, the hard ridge of her nose bumping against his collarbone as she switched from comforting him to comforting herself. For her to be so careful, though, so . . . _kind_, when he'd . . . Damn it, the last time he'd grabbed her like that he'd hurt her.

The smell of blood was too thick for him to tell if any of it came from her, and he couldn't see the spot from his angle. Gaara let go of her arm and brushed his fingertips against the back of her wounded shoulder, searching for dampness that would indicate if she was bleeding again. And aside from a ridge of small, neat stitches in the fabric under his hand, stitches he'd seen Temari leave in everything from rents in her own clothing to wounds in Kankurou's skin . . . Nothing.

Sakura flinched and tensed at his touch, inhaling shakily. When he made no further move, she spoke again. "See? Nobody's hurt. It's all ok."

Guiltily, he settled his palm against her back, away from the wound. And . . . There. Heartbeat. And it wasn't so bad; feeling the proof that she was alive against his palm with her pulse and against the skin of his throat with her soft, damp breath. Concentrating on these things helped, turning his thoughts from destruction and focusing them on the warm, live body settled firmly against his front and side, making him think about something that was calm and peaceful rather than shrill and red and screaming.

And he could smell something other than blood, if he concentrated and inhaled carefully enough: Temari's soap, which Sakura probably used whenever she had cleaned up earlier. He might be imagining the smell of the kitchen, but the faint, bitter, medicinal scent that he always associated with medics clung to her as well. And under that . . . The smell of her skin itself, warm and dry like the desert's morning air, and soft . . . Soft like her hair against his face, the skin of her cheek against his, soft like the feel of her throaty, panicky whispers and her body where it pressed against his and— _Oh, **shit.**_

Faced with the sudden, complete awareness of her proximity and her gender, he did the first thing he could think of—and violently shoved them both in opposite directions.

With his back against the wall by the door he had the space to struggle to regain some semblance of fortitude, to mentally call himself rash and irrational as he watched the careful way Sakura collected herself. She'd managed to stay mostly upright through it all even though she'd been left half-sprawled near the middle of the room, her eyes wide and bewildered.

"I'm sorry, I . . ." She glanced away. "I thought that, since it helped before . . ."

It took a few seconds to find a response. "It's all right." The problem wasn't that she'd touched him, but his . . . _hideously _inappropriate reaction. It took an effort to divert attention from those memories, from her being soft and concerned and compassionate against him—especially since the only other direction his thoughts wanted to take involved utter mayhem. The combination was terrible, leaving him unsure if he wanted to crush her to him, to let her hold him and touch him and compound upon the way his heart pounded and his mouth had suddenly gone dry . . . or to simply crush her into a bloody pulp and leave her splattered all over the room.

The way she watched him shifted from bewildered to curious, then to suspicious.

Having forced his mind to clear as much as was immediately possible, he started asking questions in order to preempt her own. "Did you notice anyone nearby at any point?"

The suspicion remained on her features even as she answered. "There was someone outside earlier. I thought you'd told them to keep an eye on me."

In retrospect, it seemed completely reasonable that attackers would go after him first. Sakura wasn't the thing that had threatened so many people's sensibilities by taking over Sand, so she wouldn't have been the primary target. But the threat of action against her . . . He knew what they'd tried to do. They'd tried to force a reaction out of him, tried to force him to slip up. Fighting while emotional all but promised that a person would make a sloppy mistake if not get themselves killed . . . and his sloppy mistake had almost killed her for them.

She glanced over him as she drew her feet back to herself, shifting to a somewhat less awkward position. "What went wrong?"

He grimaced. Telling her was admitting weakness—but not telling her would leave her open to assume the worst, and he would probably need her support in a short while. There wasn't a way around this one. "I panicked."

Something in her expression softened, became more sympathetic. "But . . .You're all right now?"

Did he need to be locked away again, she meant. _He_ didn't think so: Shukaku was vocal but otherwise enervated, and his abilities were still under control. "I'm all right."

But things now depended on if his advisors believed him.

She paused, giving him time to detachedly take in the roundness of her knees, the swell of her calves, the slimness of her fingers as they absently rubbed one ankle. Her next words were hesitant. "They said they were coming after me, didn't they?"

He scowled and raised himself to his feet. "They said you were a target." Then, as she stood as well: "Get your things."

"Gaara . . ." The shadows cast by the bathroom's light made her eyes look huge. He curiously noted that barefoot, she was shorter than him. "If I can't stay here . . ."

She definitely couldn't—not with the room almost demolished and missing a door, not with a rogue ninja or two in Sand who held grudges against them both. Temari was out trying to save Sakura's teammate. Kankurou was on watch. And he didn't trust anyone else to be able to keep her safe.

He hated the tremulous note her voice took with the next word, her uncertainty, himself for having caused the uncertainty. "Then . . ."

Looking down, he noticed reddish streaks on her arms. Had he unintentionally sanded her skin away?

No, his still-wet sand had smeared the blood of his would-be assassins all over her.

_Damn everything._

Though he still didn't like the idea of letting a strange ninja into his living space, he didn't see another option. For Naruto, he had to. "You're staying with me."

He ignored the trapped expression that flickered across her features in favor of searching for a glass. He found one in the bathroom and filled it from the sink, drinking as the sounds in the other room indicated that she'd started searching for her belongings. Two refills later, she was in the bathroom behind him, picking her way around the shards of an unfortunate piece of decorative pottery while collecting her shin wraps. He watched her reflection in the mirror before turning his attention to the half-dry trickle of blood on his chin from where his snarls had split his own lip and the tiny freckles of redness from his attackers' demises.

Aside from that, he wasn't as covered as he could have been. At least he hadn't ruined this set of clothing, too. Whoever had decided that kage robes should be white was obviously a moron with ridiculously high expectations.

Gaara glared at his reflection for good measure, then turned the water back on to rinse his face. When he looked up again, she was watching him. "Gaara . . . Hold still."

Her hand raised, her fingers close enough to his lips that he could feel the warm radiating from her skin. Then the warmth changed to that of healing, and she pulled away, nodding faintly. "There. Now it won't look like you . . ."

Got hurt. Was able to be hurt. Had any problems on the way from one place to the next.

"Thanks," he murmured. She'd figured out that he had to maintain appearances with Sand, then, and was willing to help him do just that. But in her state, she wouldn't do much for holding up the pretense. "You need to rinse, too."

From the way she paled and quickly nodded, she'd noticed why. Gaara turned away to not see the near-frantic movements with which she washed. He had other things to worry about than the kunoichi wasting water; for instance, notifying his advisors about the latest development in their hunt for the traitor.

If they were helping hunt the traitor, that was. If any of them weren't the traitor, even . . . Though if that was the case, he might not be able to avoid the room with the seals and the kettle.

And the young ninja he noticed outside, approaching the building with short, hesitant strides . . . Yeah, he could be anything. For now, though, he'd be a messenger. Gaara stepped into view, making certain to appear perfectly collected. "Makoto. Tell my advisors that there was trouble, three streets that way."

The ninja glanced in the direction Gaara gestured, his wide eyes and audible gulp indicating that he knew exactly what "trouble" entailed, then bowed with a rushed "Yes, Kazekage-sama," and bolted.

If he was loyal, he'd get the message to where it needed to go quickly enough that Gaara would probably be harassed by one council member or another soon after he arrived back at his apartments. If he wasn't . . . Well, his expression meant that Gaara'd probably not have any more assassin troubles from him for the next while.

Sakura stepped up beside him, nodding to indicate that she was ready. Without another word, he started walking. It took her about a block to fill in the silence.

"What happened back there?"

"Assassins." When she opened her mouth, he elaborated before she could ask him to. "Three of them. Someone told them I couldn't use sand." And that someone, by making her a possible target, had dragged her into the middle of everything.

She paused, then lowered her voice. "Is 'someone' the person Kankurou was telling you about this morning?"

So she'd been close enough to hear at least parts of his and Kankurou's discussion. Well, it saved him the trouble of having to explain it to her. "Yeah."

"But . . . Even if the assassins were with that person, why would they want to do that?" Her voice managed to sound small and unsure rather than flavored with ire, making him look over at her in an attempt to figure out what was wrong. "You just got back. They should be _welcoming_ you, not trying to kill you."

It wasn't exactly a topic he wanted to get into at that moment . . . But in relation to how she'd spent her afternoon immersed in Sand's records, it wasn't like he'd be doing more than fleshing out something she'd probably already seen. "I've been killing the people here since I was born. They had families, friends. Brothers and sisters. I can't tell them to forget the past. Some will still hold grudges." A glance to his side found her considering him, frowning slightly as the night's shadows dimmed the color of her eyes. "Some of them will always be against me."

"Still, though," she persisted, though she stopped watching him so intently in favor of frowning at the ground. After a few strides, she quietly added, "I told you not to strain yourself, too."

He scowled. "It shouldn't have been a strain."

"Gaara." He turned back to her at the sound of his name. "About thirty hours ago you were all but comatose. You have limits until you're fully recuperated. You can't expect to just . . . pick up again, like nothing happened."

He folded his arms across his chest, glowering at the ground. The Akatsuki were circling, his council had become vocally dissentious, there was at least one traitor somewhere in Sand's midst, and he now had to worry about whether or not he'd be unseated for defending himself. He didn't have the convenience of relaxation. "If I can't pick up again, how am I supposed to protect Sand?"

The corners of her mouth turned downward, her lips compressing into a thin, pale line. "But how are you supposed to protect Sand when this is what happens when you try to protect yourself?" Then, abashedly: "I'm sorry."

He shrugged it off. "Don't be." It would be stupid to not listen to her advice, though. "I'll try to take it easy for a little while."

She nodded in return, wrapping her arms around herself uneasily. For his part, he redirected his attention to the street in front of them in order to ignore the glances of the few people they passed. No one stopped them as they entered the building, and no one waited outside his door. Gaara reflected that his advisors were probably grouping as he led Sakura into his apartments. He gave her a second to look the main room over as they took their shoes off, noting the self-imposed minimalism of the handful of pieces of furniture, from the low table to the few chairs, to the wardrobe in the corner and the bookshelves stuffed with assorted scrolls, academy books, and family histories. The plant Temari'd brought in to "liven up the place" still sat, insolently green, under one window, and a quick check proved that it had been recently watered.

Turning as he wiped his fingers on his pants leg, he found Sakura watching him. "You can sleep there," he said, pointing to the couch set against one wall. She sat obediently, knees pressed tightly together and hands clasped in her lap, watching him with such an unwavering expression of wide-eyed worry that he hoped she wasn't going into shock.

In his search for clean clothing, he found the plain brown blanket Kankurou used when he slept over, folded at the bottom of his wardrobe. "Here," he offered, crossing the room to put it in Sakura's outstretched hand before retreating to the bathroom to change. Fishing the packet she'd given him out of his pocket, he mixed his dosage as he'd been instructed, drank, and then turned his attention to the mess he'd made earlier. His robes were left to soak in a sink full of soapy water, while the clothes he'd left on top of his laundry basket that afternoon ended up buried at the bottom of it in an attempt to cover up their smell. He'd finally gotten them acceptably hidden when the knock sounded at his door.

There were only two advisors outside, waiting to test him, to pass judgment. Baki and Shun, whose left eye still sported some colorful bruising, had arrived together, in all likelihood intending to achieve some sort of safety in numbers. Gaara could imagine the hushed conversation that had to have taken place as they'd collected. _The Kazekage's been back in Sand for a few hours now, and he's already murdering his way through the village. Oh, and this time he's taken a hostage._

Yeah. Great.

He glanced over his shoulder at Sakura, who looked very small and very uneasy, seated in the middle of his couch with the blanket his brother had used last draped around her shoulders. The attention drew the gazes of the men in front of him, solidifying the fact that they'd seen her alive and unharmed. He'd need every bit of weight he could put behind this.

Gaara stepped into the hallway, shutting the door behind him for the semblance of privacy. He didn't waste time. "Three assassins attacked me and threatened the Leaf chuunin. They said they'd been sent by someone. Whoever it was could have been the one we're looking for . . ." He met Shun's eyes pointedly. "Or just a dissenter."

The older man's eyes narrowed at the barely veiled stab, but Baki stopped him before he could make an issue of it. "I've taken care of the cleanup. It would be helpful if you could give us any idea who to notify about this. The remains you left weren't recognizable."

"Considering what happened after I listened to you and tried to capture the enemy rather than just destroy them**—**" That plan had blown up in his face**—**literally. "I wasn't going to take any chances."

Shun spoke up. "We didn't mean for that to happen. Yuura's plan made sense, so we backed it. Capturing an Akatsuki member, then learning everything we could about their abilities and organization before turning their heads over for the bounty would be good for Sand."

"We didn't expect anything like what happened out there," Baki added, supplicatingly.

Gaara nodded. Neither had he. "I recognized one. The others were masked." Making vocal plans for the near future would hopefully make the pair in front of him less likely to consider reaching that future without him. "I'll keep an eye on Sand's registry and see who's gone missing in the next few days."

"There's a problem with that, too," Baki said. "We still have people unaccounted for from the situation at the gates. A good number of the bodies there also weren't recognizable."

"We expect deserters soon, as well," Shun added. "Morale is low, and we can't keep Sand in a permanent state of lockdown. The merchants have to go home eventually, there's people who want to hire our nins for missions . . . We can't stall them all forever."

Having a ninja go rogue was, in a way, worse than having them killed. Gaara made a mental note to meet with the jounin instructors and tell them to start making better note of their students' mental states in mission reports. "I'll set up the missions for tomorrow, then."

"Also . . ." Baki glanced at the closed door. "The Fifth Hokage was sent a message about how one of her ninjas came back alive. That one is her personal student. If the girl should die now . . ."

"Nothing will happen to her as long as she's in my care." Pushing away the thought of how the only things to entangle her had been directly related to him, he continued. "There's paperwork about the gate incident and new missions in my office?" After the indication of assent, he continued. "I need it. And a moment, Shun."

Baki glanced at his fellow advisor before nodding. The man obviously recognized that he was being shuffled out of the way, but didn't complain. After his instructor had disappeared around a corner, Gaara turned back to Shun. Kankurou'd once jokingly told him to give people a chance to speak before trampling them . . . So he waited.

"I don't like you," Shun stated flatly. Gaara didn't so much as blink**—**he'd known he could count on the man being brutally honest. "I don't have to like you. I just have to help you lead Sand."

Play-acting at placidity wouldn't fool anyone. "Undermining me doesn't help me. I don't have the time to deal with any more problems. As it is, we may have years of work ahead of us to hunt down any other spies or traitors. I don't want to find out that one of them is among the people that are supposed to be guiding me."

Shun considered him quietly. "You being Kazekage has provided more contention than anything else done here in the past sixteen years. I've done my part to support you to the public, but I'm entitled**—**we're _all_ entitled to worry."

"Is that what you spent the time worried about?" The muscles across his shoulders tensed, shook. "You were all _worried,"_ he said, his voice tight, controlled, "and that's why it took six days for me to get back? That's the reason for the wait for Leaf's teams, and why more of Sand's nins weren't in the rescue party? Is it why Sand's only contribution to the group was a ninja that's been in retirement for _years?"_

"We _tried,"_ Shun snapped. "Damn you, we tried! The Akatsuki came in on the edge of a sandstorm, and we lost their tracks only a few kilometers out. And Chiyo-baasama _told _us that she'd be the only one to go. She was trying to save face for Sand, so Leaf's nins didn't report back about how weak Sand is, about how we're incapable of doing anything!" He paused, shaking his head at the ground. When he resumed speaking, his voice was lower, calmer. "It was supposed to be an alliance, for the better of both of our villages. It wasn't supposed to be about turning Sand into their parasite, leeching as much off of them as they'll let us."

So Shun's loyalties weren't as much to his Kazekage as they were to Sand itself. Gaara could relate to that**—**the village's safety and future were priorities over even his own life. Despite their differences, it seemed like they were still mostly on the same page. "I understand. I'll deal with restructuring relations soon." That was secondary to finding the spies and traitors, though.

"Remember to control the stories that leave Sand, as well. We've been trying to control things here." Shun gestured towards the door. "You may need to worry about your friend in there."

Gaara enunciated the words carefully. "My 'friend in there' has spent the past few days risking her life to save mine, while earlier I listened to people like you sit outside my cage and talk about why I needed to die. Who am I supposed to value more?"

"It's not about value. It's about Sand's future, and its stability. Otherwise . . ." The man looked at the ground. When he looked back up, his usual mask of emotional distance had fallen away, replaced with concern that Gaara was certain mirrored his own. "Otherwise, it'll be setting yourself up to stand there and watch everything you've worked for slip away. And then what are you supposed to do?"

He couldn't answer. But as Baki cautiously turned the corner back towards them, carrying an armload of folders and paperwork, he found he didn't have to. Shun turned to his companion with the curt confirmation of "He's fine. He's just the same as he was before," and with the handing over of papers and the barest of formalities, they were gone.

Gaara breathed a sigh of relief at his abdication, watching the pair until they rounded the corner before returning to his quarters. Sakura hadn't moved. She looked up at him when he came back into the room, flashing him a shaky half-smile that left him wondering what worried her more: what was waiting outside, or what had just locked himself in with her. But with everything she'd been through**—**everything he'd put her through**—**in the past day, he couldn't fault her.

"Get some sleep," he told her, as he set his pile of paperwork down on the table in front of her and dragged the entire thing to the far side of the room. When he looked up, though, she was still watching him. "What?"

"I . . ." She picked at the hem of a shin wrap nervously, then looked away. He waited. Eventually, she started up again. "Do you mind if I get something to drink?"

"No." Thankfully, the Kazekage's apartments had all amenities. He led her to his kitchen and found a cup for her, but put it on the counter rather than give it to her. Judging by the way her hands were shaking, the stresses of the past few days had finally caught up with her. He'd seen Sand's medics give overtaxed shinobi hot tea to help calm them; so though he didn't understand _how_ it helped, he reached for the box anyway.

"I'm sorry," she murmured. Gaara turned from his attempt to quickly boil water to find her watching the ground, her hands clasped in front of her as if her white-knuckled grip would fully hide their shaking. "I'm . . . I'm just worried." She brushed her hair back from her eyes abruptly, then pressed her hand against the side of her own face. Her shoulders shook, and even with the angle her head tilted downward he could see how her brow wrinkled and mouth twisted. "I'm being silly. I shouldn't, I . . ."

No, she wasn't being silly**—**she was about to crack. And since the combination that'd been heaped upon her included exhaustion, stress, shell-shock, and detoxification, all at once . . . "Sit down."

She resisted his efforts to herd her towards a chair by planting her feet and ignoring his hand as it skimmed the air by her arm. "I'm fine, I just . . . I just need a minute." The green of her eyes seemed brighter. By the time he realized why, and realized that her lower lip was starting to quiver as well, she'd closed them, half-turned away. "Don't look at me, please."

So she didn't want him to see her cry, didn't want him to see her weak. He could understand that. And if it was something as simple as a moment of weakness and not patterning strongly for a full-fledged nervous breakdown, he wouldn't mind leaving her to her own devices.

_Nothing will happen to her,_ Gaara reminded himself. He wasn't capable of physically defending her in the way he wanted to yet, so he'd have to make do with what he had. "Here." He stepped around her, catching her wrist and raising her hand in front of her face, hoping she'd understand. "This is you." His fingertips brushed over the roughened skin of her palm, the ridges on the sides of her index finger that could only come from weeks of wirework, the slight layer of callus over her knuckles. "Do you see? This is what you've worked for."

She blinked at his attention and sniffled, momentarily startled away from tears, then turned her head away. "I shouldn't be here. I should be out there, helping them look for everyone. But . . ." Her free hand gestured towards its match, to how her fingers still trembled, and her next words came out forced, harsh. "But I'm still not _strong_ enough."

Gaara scowled faintly. The girl was missing the point. He pointed to her palm again. "You didn't get these from crying over strength, did you?"

She shook her head—no. Encouraged, he caught her other hand, drawing attention to the matching calluses there. "Did you get them from not working, not training, not trying?"

"No."

He thought for a second, searching for the words that would pull her out of her dive. "Didn't you just tell me that I have limits that I have to respect?"

"But that's different." Sakura closed her eyes this time instead of looking away, lips curving into a smile and shoulders shaking with a silent chuckle. "I really am a hypocrite, aren't I?"

The best course of action here was probably to remain silent.

Contented, the redhead moved to let go of her wrists—only to have her grasp his in return. And after his initial confusion, it started to make sense. Apparently she needed human contact more than a warm drink. Strange . . . but not so strange in relation to how she'd tried to calm him before.

She was still in a fragile state, still Naruto's special person, and still seeking whatever comfort he could offer, so he couldn't just shove her away this time. Rather than force the issue, force her to let go of him, he decided to pay attention to her calluses again. She didn't draw back when he raised her hands to better examine the faint lines of scars on her fingers, the slim fragility of her wrists. And by the time he'd gotten around to absently comparing the size of their hands—his was just barely larger, which felt strangely satisfactory—her breathing had evened out, the tense, hurt line between her eyebrows smoothing to curiosity.

"Gaara," she murmured, her thumb rubbing over the side of his. "Thank you."

He released his grip enough that she could slip free without any trouble. "It's nothing."

The new, soft expression on her face as she watched him, though . . . That was something. Rather than dwell on it, he blamed it on gratitude.

After he'd finally gotten her settled down with a cup of tea and settled himself behind his table, she spoke again. "It isn't fair that it should be so hard for you." When she finally looked up, her gaze was steady. "I want to help here, help you . . . If you want."

It wouldn't be so much of an offer if she hadn't already proven that Leaf's medics were that far ahead of Sand's. "All right. Tomorrow." She smiled at the response and finished her tea, setting the cup down, stretching out, and tucking the blanket around herself. To cover up that he'd kept an eye on her the entire time, he murmured "Sleep well," and immediately put his mind to focusing on mission setups. He knew she was watching him, but still made a point of not looking up until he was sure she'd rolled over and finally fallen asleep.

The girl was nothing but trouble and he should've sent her home immediately. But no, he had to break down her door, all but collapse on her, and then start petting her. It'd probably been blind luck that she herself hadn't panicked and gotten them both killed.

That wasn't giving her any credit, though. After all, she_ had_ to be strong in some way. Naruto and Lee both thought highly of her, even at a time when her abilities had been near-laughable. And now, Naruto'd sent her to help him; her of all people, when Gaara wasn't sure how many others would have walked away from everything she'd been through that day intact. But in relation to her near-breakdown . . . He wondered if Naruto's intentions had included putting them together so they'd be able to hold each other up.

Well, he had time to figure it out.


	10. Skin Hunger

By the time he'd set the finished files in neat stacks on his table, washed his clothes, cleaned the spoiling food out of his refrigerator, and watered down and devoured every bit of soup in his apartments, there was only one thing left to begin the morning.

All it took was the clank of a pan against the countertop; and with a sharp inhalation and a jerk, Sakura was up. Satisfied, Gaara nodded a greeting and waited for her to get her bearings, telling himself that his observation of the way she stretched was merely casual. The night had given him time to consider issues more pressing than how she'd slept, but the more pleasantly distracting ones weren't what he _needed_ to deal with.

Sakura joined him in a moment, smiling shyly, with the blanket draped around her shoulders and her hip pouch in her hand. It had apparently helped her composure that she'd made it through the night without being accosted. Too bad he was going to break that brief stretch of peace.

He started the second she stepped into the kitchen. "Does the Fifth Hokage hate Naruto?"

She blinked at him like he'd said something ridiculous. "What?"

Narrowing his eyes, he repeated himself. "Does she hate Naruto?"

"No, not at all, nothing like**—** Why would you think that?"

"Because otherwise she sent a pitifully small team into battle against what could've been all of the Akatsuki. Why would she do that unless she was trying to get rid of him?"

"Why would it be about him? What makes you sure it's _him_ she'd be trying to get rid of?"

Her half-step back told him that she'd gone on the defensive, while the tensing of her jaw said she knew _something,_ hinted that she knew what he'd already guessed at. "What's sealed into him?"

Green eyes lowered, focused on some spot to the left of his feet. "The Kyuubi." Then, quieter: "How did you know?"

"He told me. Years ago." When the two Leaf genin had caught him beside Lee's hospital bed, and he'd thought the claim was worthless bravado until he actually _fought_ the boy later.

"He just told me a few days ago," Sakura frowned.

And she looked hurt by the omission. He hadn't intended to foster any discontent within Naruto's team. "He probably wasn't trying to frighten you with it."

"No," she smiled, faintly. "Not Naruto." Brow furrowed, she stepped around him, picking a glass from his drying rack and pouring another packet of what he assumed was more medication into it. She reached for the sink's faucet and started filling the rest of the glass before she continued. "And Tsunade-sama thinks of him like . . . like a little brother. She wouldn't want something like that to happen to him."

Her halting family comparison soothed his worries some, though he couldn't just let it go that simply. "Are you certain?"

Sakura smiled at his unease as she passed him the glass, and try as he might, he couldn't pick out everything the slight curve of her lips implied. "I'm completely certain."

So the Fifth Hokage just had terrible planning skills. He raised the drink to his mouth to cover his scowl. Sakura's expression darkened, though, and he knew that she'd guessed at his thoughts.

"If he gets caught," Gaara stated, meeting her glare for glare, "you won't want to forgive her the missteps."

"I know." Her gaze lowered. "You're just worried about him, aren't you?"

"Yeah."

"Me too." After a second of silence, she looked back up and gestured in the direction of the bathroom. "Do you mind if I get a shower?"

"Go ahead."

When the door closed behind her, he slouched against the countertop and glowered into the remains of his medicine.

Watching her bothered him. Having her there instead of Kankurou annoyed him. And if his mind treacherously strung together his memories of her, luring him with thoughts of her soft and smiling, with her skin warm against his as her limbs curved around him . . .

No wonder his advisors had been terrified of what would happen when he hit puberty.

He shouldn't have shipped her out; he should've locked her in the room under Sand until her teammates showed up to get rid of her.

That wasn't fair, though. He ignored the little bit of himself that said that he was the Kazekage and could do whatever he damn well wanted, overriding it with an imagined explanation to Naruto of why he'd felt the need to imprison the boy's friend. No reason made him sound any more sane.

He'd just deal with her. It was easier, kept her out of trouble, kept him medicated at the proper intervals without having to hunt her down every few hours . . . And it wasn't like her presence was _that_ annoying. On the other hand, his real problems had become ephemeral, dealing with treason and missing-nins and nothing substantial that he could wrap his hands or his sand around and crush until it didn't threaten anything anymore. The girl might bother him on some primitive, visceral level; but his unwilling powerlessness in the face of Sand's dangers stretched his temper, demanding to know why he didn't just stalk through the city until he'd sought out and buried each potential problem so far underground that they'd never be found.

A knock sounded at the door. Half-expecting his brother, he opened it to find a worried-looking ninja who knelt and offered him a scroll. The message inside was pretty much what he'd expected:

_Kazekage-sama,_

_In light of recent events, we your council request that you meet with us this morning at your earliest convenience, so that we may possibly_**—**

He stopped reading in favor of skimming. The wording was standard, though the message didn't mention exactly what the focus of the discussion would be: the dead assassins from the night before, threatening Advisor Nakashima the previous afternoon, practically adopting the Leaf chuunin, frightening the hell out of everyone . . . He scowled. And then there was the written bowing and scraping, evidence of them tip-toeing around his temper. That particular way of handling him got on his nerves more than his argument with Advisor Shun.

"Tell them I'll meet with them before I assign missions today," he told the messenger, who bowed again and disappeared. Free of them, Gaara headed back to the kitchen in search of his glass. Annoyance kept him from doing more than staring into the mixture, though, as if he could see his best course of action in its ripples.

After a little bit, the sound of water running in the next room stopped. In another few minutes Sakura reappeared, her damp hair framing her face. He looked up as she approached, watched curiously as she tilted his glass down to see into it. She didn't speak this time, instead glancing at the remains of his medication, then back up at him with a sigh and a mock-weary smile. Gaara recognized the gesture for what it was: a peace offering, her telling him that there were no hard feelings without lowering herself by spelling it out. Amused, he downed the last of the mix, then let her peer into the empty container as both proof and acceptance.

She didn't back up, giving him time to contemplate the ease of her proximity. But with regards to how he'd helped calm her . . . Gaara's fingers twitched as he remembered the warmth and weight of her hands. The stress and weariness that had saturated her posture and movements the night before seemed to have dissipated. She didn't seem to be holding her right arm as stiffly, either. "Your wound?" he asked.

Some tension seemed to leave the set of her shoulders at the gesture. "A lot better," she smiled. Then, belatedly: "Thanks."

That was good—he wouldn't have to worry about her being at a disadvantage if anything else should happen. Or about her noticing his attentiveness and reaching the wrong conclusions.

Sakura reached out and touched the scroll in his other hand with one finger. "They're starting already?"

"Yeah."

"Is there anything I can . . ." She trailed off.

"No." After a second's consideration, he corrected himself. "Not yet. Sand's medics would be glad to work with you later. Kankurou will be here soon—he'll take you there."

To her credit, she managed to mostly conceal her apprehension before nodding. "Until then?"

"We wait."

Thankfully, Kankurou didn't make them wait for too long. He did barge through the doorway with barely a preemptory knock, though, his expression equal parts concern and anger. "What happened?"

The things they needed to discuss weren't things Sakura needed to be privy to. "I need a moment," he told her. "Pack up—Naruto might arrive at any time."

With her safely out of the kitchen, he was able to speak freely. Kankurou nodded periodically throughout the brief retelling, waiting until Gaara finished before offering any input.

"You know what they're trying to do." His brother's jaw clenched. "They're trying to bait you into getting yourself killed. Whoever sent the assassins would've assumed that you could handle them, but now it's only your word that says they came after you first. If you'd gone on and killed her, it would've been beyond doubt." He paused, as if searching for words that wouldn't offend. "I've seen what you look like when you're going out of control. The person outside of her building probably saw that and took off, and probably only would've taken her out if you hadn't come back."

It was the only thing that made sense. Even making his advisors and his village doubt him was dangerous. The sum of the problems and previous events could become too much at any point. Then he'd be dead, and Shukaku would be in a kettle small enough that someone could feasibly tuck it into a bag and walk away. And Kankurou was right—on his way to find Sakura, he'd probably looked like some sort of lurching, snarling monster. And if he had killed her . . .

No. Not with the way she'd reacted. Not with him fighting Shukaku the entire way.

Engrossed in folding her clothing on the other side of the room, Sakura paused for long enough to pick at a spot on one of her shirts. Her curiosity and alertness somehow seemed remarkably fragile, housed in too frail a frame to be able to stand up to anything either he or the world outside could subject her to.

He wasn't sure what he thought of the girl, but he was certain that he hated that part of her.

"She's one of_ his_ important people," he murmured, hoping his brother would understand. "I can't let anything happen to her."

"And I can't afford to have anything happen to you," Kankurou replied. "You keep looking after her, and she'll look after you when I can't. So it's all right."

Looking after each other. Like comrades. He could handle that.

He still had another potential problem to consider, though. "You didn't tell me that Yuura was among the ones killed at the gate."

"It was his idea that got you captured," Kankurou frowned. "He was also one of the ones we could only identify by his possessions. Think there's significance?"

In that Yuura had been the one to propose capturing an Akatsuki member, as well as how he'd been the one to alert them all to a possible attack? "Definitely." But the possibilities there would have to wait. "I have a meeting soon. I'll need you to keep an eye on her while I'm there."

"Can do." The puppeteer looked over to where Sakura seemed to be expressing undue concern over her pillow, his voice pitched to carry. "Have anything to do before he puts you to work?

She paused, frowning, and almost casually flipped the pillow over. "He needs breakfast, still."

"We'll get him breakfast," Kankurou coaxed. "We'll feed him after he's done bickering with the old men." Then, to Gaara: "Let me know if it looks like it'll get fun. I'd like to hit Shun again."

The meeting wouldn't turn out that way—at least not if he was there while calm and rational. But as he opened his door to let the two out, Gaara found himself wondering how bad it could get.

**ooo**

As it was, under the shadow of his predecessors' statues, he ended up attacking first.

"I don't trust you," Gaara told the assembled group. "You shouldn't have to ask me what's wrong."

The expressions directed at him settled at weary, long-suffering. Looking over their faces, he wondered if he'd ever make it to an age where he'd also be weather-worn, lined and etched by the desert's elements. "You know we're here for the good of Sand as well," one replied.

It wasn't like him to take them all on at once . . . but this time, he felt it was justified. "I know that 'the good of Sand' is the reason why I'm in this condition, why I need to keep a medic on hand. 'The good of Sand' is what keeps bringing the assassins to me, the people that think ridding Sand of a monster will keep them safer at night." He scowled. "I have no faith in the ideal of 'the good of Sand.'"

Shun spoke up. "There's no doubt that with the way things have gone lately, none of us really has a reason to trust the others. We've all been shaken up, we've all lost someone we know. Distrust is to be expected, which is why the best thing for us to do is work together until we find an end to this thing."

There was more coming. Gaara waited.

"We do need to discuss your medic, though." This time Baki did the speaking. "She's not from Sand. Even if Leaf is allied with us, there's that to consider. You don't know what kind of motives she might have."

He'd considered her motives, though, while listening to her breathe from across the room the night before. Every implication was that her motives solely prompted her to act out of duty and out of loyalty to her friend. And she'd proved the night before that she would do whatever was in her power to keep him under control and safe.

"Her motives don't matter if I keep an eye on her. Right now, she's the only person that stands completely outside of what went on that morning. I can trust her to not be the traitor, which is more than I can say for almost everyone else in this city."

"You're keeping her close, though," Baki rebutted. "Maybe too close. No matter what you may be thinking, you haven't been looking at her like she's just another ninja. As your council, we've discussed this already. We understand that to an extent, it's our fault that this has happened. But you understand as well: when you were a child, we were more worried about saving ourselves from you than about someone coming in, showing you some random act of kindness, and stealing you away. We made this weakness in you, and for that we're sorry."

_It's not a weakness,_ he thought; but stifled the words before they reached his lips. He replaced it with a denial, both to himself and to his listeners: "I can put her aside any time I want."

To the older man's side, another advisor nodded slowly, as Baki bowed his head. "We can only hope you're right." Then came the trap's setting: "We will trust you in this if you could just trust us a little."

If it wasn't for compromise, he wouldn't be in his position. If it wasn't for compromise, nothing would get done. Gaara nodded. "I can do that."

"Good." Baki nodded. "As for the next order of business . . ."

Gaara's stomach chose that moment to voice its desire for the breakfast he'd been promised. He nodded at the next question directed at him, torn between duty and hoping that things would proceed quickly. But as always, duty came first.

**ooo**

They must have been waiting. Gaara had just gotten to the room for mission assignments and handed off the paperwork for the first teams to Baki when Kankurou and Sakura walked in. As his brother pulled up a pair of chairs, Sakura set the bulky package in her arms on the table in front of him. "Here. We figured you'd need something extra to boost your spirits after the meeting."

Curious, Gaara tugged the paper wrapping aside. She'd brought him an entire _box_ of food. His stomach growled as he reached in, examining the containers. Soup, more soup, rice, and . . . praise the girl, she'd had the sense to bring him meat.

And most importantly, Kankurou sat and watched the proceedings without any hint of trepidation. There was no way his brother would have let his food or even his medication pass through her hands if he thought she posed the _slightest_ danger.

And if he couldn't trust his brother's judgment—hell, both of his siblings' judgment—then he'd be back in the same lonely, paranoid place he'd been years before. Gaara's eyes flickered over the puppeteer, then back to the girl at his side. He didn't want that. And if his brother was that certain the girl was safe . . . Well, Gaara didn't like his council's opinion anyway.

"It's not really well-spiced," Sakura explained, "but he said that it's stuff you like. So it should be ok, right?"

Engrossed with searching for chopsticks, he only nodded.

She paused, then turned to his brother. "Is this what counts as 'lighting up' for him?"

"Not quite," Kankurou answered. "He usually blinks more."

Gaara looked over to find her watching him, her chin tilted upwards in a way he recognized as a prelude to her being cheeky. "What kind of food would it take to see you actually light up?"

He jabbed at the box, deciding to humor her. "This. Only more."

She laughed, and he focused on one of the soups as to not dwell on the ease of it.

"And there." She pointed a slim finger at his nose. "You're doing it again."

_Doing what?_ he wondered—then realized it. Smiling.

Playing off his reactions and how she'd predicted he'd react in order to tease him . . . The girl was shameless. No, not quite shameless—if he looked, he could see the faintest hint of a blush on her cheeks.

Interesting.

In the face of his undivided attention, she blushed darker, then turned to where Kankurou pretended to muffle his chuckles. "What? A happy patient heals faster."

"You're assuming that flirting with _this _patient is welcome," Kankurou rebutted.

"I . . . well . . . I was just . . . He keeps smiling, so . . ." Sakura glanced back to him, her hand anxiously rising to cover her mouth. "If it wasn't ok, you'd tell me, right?"

He all but heard her swallow the "Kazekage-sama" at the end of the question. Here was a chance to quiet her by slipping back into that formality, to end her prodding and stop her from trying to rattle him so much. But . . . Dealing with her gave him the same feeling as the first time he'd sat in on academy classes, when a student had turned to him for approval after the successful completion of a technique. He'd been new to his position, and the child's wide-eyed expression had been a bright spot in his day, had made him feel like he'd done something right. There was a difference, though: the student had looked to him as the Kazekage. The girl beside him accepted and trampled all over him as Gaara.

Damn her, she had to ask that question when he wasn't even sure what he thought of her attempts.

He didn't exactly want to encourage her—but on the other hand, he wasn't sure he wanted to _discourage_ her. There was still one option that would let him avoid a yes or no answer; so he focused his attention on his breakfast again and ignored both of the troublemakers. Sakura only watched him until Kankurou started chuckling again. And he didn't even _want_ to know what his brother thought of the entire situation.

"We should get going," Kankurou grinned. "It's time to let the Kazekage do his job."

"Ok." Sakura stood, smiling uncertainly. "See you in a few hours?"

He didn't like her uncertainty; so he wrenched his attention from his meal for long enough to make eye contact, letting his expression relax a little as he replied. "Yeah."

She waggled her fingers at him as they left and the first of the teams started to enter. The approaching ninjas didn't afford enough opportunity to ignore how Baki watched him, though. And unlike the possibilities of Sakura's quest to help his emotional well-being, the older man's concern was something that merited worrying about.

"Any time I want, Baki," he stated. But though the older man nodded and looked away, his expression didn't change.

It wasn't until after the missions were assigned and the room had emptied that Baki returned to the subject. "It's not that we're attacking you. It's that we worry. What happens to Sand if you get led astray while our backs are turned?"

He knew exactly what could happen. "I refuse to be the Kazekage to preside over Sand's downfall."

"And if you slip up?"

The threat of failure created doubt, created weakness. There could be no doubt. And if the people close to him implied that he had reason to . . . "They have you speak for them because they're sure I won't kill you." Gaara considered the jounin, the man he'd known almost his entire life. "Do you ever worry that they're wrong?"

Baki looked away before answering—but that was all the answer he needed. Tucking a folder of paperwork under his arm and a few scrolls into his pockets, Gaara set out to find his self-appointed charge.

**ooo**

The medics in Sand's hospital directed him to one of the long, rectangular libraries. From the group of medics chattering over various opened books on one side of the room, it seemed that Sakura had set up camp—and from the array of puppet parts around his brother in the far corner, it seemed that Kankurou had done the same. To not interrupt the discussion, Gaara went to him first.

Kankurou glanced up as Gaara seated himself. "Anything new?"

"No."

His brother scowled, then sighed, rolling a dismembered piece of puppetry between his forefinger and thumb. Gaara didn't recognize the segments in front of him as any of Kankurou's usual puppets. "This is a new one?"

"Yeah," Kankurou grinned. "Having puppets built by someone else was what got me into trouble with Sasori. If he comes back, I want to have something new to show him." He jerked his chin towards the group of medics, who appeared to have abandoned working for laughing. "I think they're almost done. You've got her from here?"

"Yeah. Go get some rest."

Sakura looked over and waved as Kankurou gathered his things and got up to leave. In return, the puppeteer pointed at her and winked, then nodded cheerfully over his shoulder to Gaara. Gaara sighed to himself, shaking his head. Maybe he'd been wrong about which of them was the shameless one.

Sakura glanced back to him, then smiled. And though he knew it was a stupid thing to do, he let himself bask in it for a second before turning back to his papers.

_It doesn't mean anything,_ he told himself. _She's just doing it because that's how she thinks things work._ So the flirting—at least she'd said it was _supposed_ to be flirting—the familiarity, and how she treated him the way he imagined normal people treated each other . . .

It didn't matter if it was supposed to mean anything, anyway. It was stupid for him to take her in like his siblings had. He had responsibilities. Things to worry about that weren't silly and female. _And soft,_ he reminded himself—then shoved that thought away. The girl was nothing but trouble. She'd messed up his still-recuperating brother's sleep schedule because he couldn't leave her alone, because he couldn't count on her being strong enough to defend herself if something should happen. And then she made him doubt his own ability to protect her. And _then_, to top it off, she couldn't be taken seriously. She flirted too much and smiled too much and took too long in the shower, she was _stupidly_ modest at _stupid_ times, and she'd _drooled _on his couch. And she was too . . . too . . . _Pink._ Of all colors, her hair had to be _pink._ That was a _terrible_ color for a ninja's hair. She'd stand out like . . . Like . . .

He almost smiled; then reached up to tug a strand of his own hair down so he could see it. She'd stand out about as badly as he did.

All right, so he might be acting just a little ridiculous.

Someone at the table clapped and cheerily announced that it was lunchtime. He let go of his hair to better pay attention to the group's interaction. Catching her watching him was almost expected, as was her smile.

He might just be getting used to it all. But he could still give her up any time he wanted.

"Do you need me to come back later?" she asked, directing her question to the general group.

"If you can," one of the medics grinned.

Gaara nodded to himself and tucked the papers in his hand back into their folder. He'd known that the girl wouldn't willingly give up any of Leaf's medical secrets—allies or no, there were some things that the Hokage _definitely_ wouldn't approve of—but he still wondered how hard the group had been working her for snippets of unknown information. And how successful they'd been.

"Distracted?" Sakura approached him, smiling, as the people behind her began milling about in preparation to leave.

"Yeah."

She slowed, then came to a halt, glancing up at him through her eyelashes. Her voice was soft, pitched for privacy. "The records said . . . that your earliest medics had problems getting you to let them cut your hair. That you didn't like the scissors, or something." Her lips curved slightly. "The person writing it all down complained about how they couldn't just wait for you to go to sleep and do it then."

The person writing the records at that time . . . would've been Yashamaru. He didn't want to think of that. "I don't remember."

"You were really young. It's understandable." She shrugged and glanced over to where the last medics had started filing out of the room, then back to him. "Feeling hungry again yet?"

"Yeah."

She nodded, but her attention remained focused on his hair. As if shaken from her reverie by how he observed her examination with equal curiosity, she smiled. "What is it with you guys, anyway? I leave you all alone for a little while, and you both turn up shaggy."

And he hadn't the _faintest_ idea what she was talking about.

"You and Naruto," Sakura elaborated. "He came back with . . . Well, his hair's like yours. All over the place." She giggled. "I doubt either of you even _owns_ a brush."

He had no idea why it mattered, either. Engrossed in watching her laugh, he didn't think to move when she reached out towards him. Her fingertips bumped against his forehead, ran up into his hairline . . . and promptly got caught. "Point proven," she laughed, tugging gently against the knot.

And like it was the most normal thing in the world, she stepped forward to work the tangle out.

For a few seconds, he was too stunned to respond. A hundred different protests ran through his mind, collided, and were reduced to nonsensical syllables. A hundred different sharp, cutting things to say crashed into the distracted smile on her face and were blunted. And he couldn't figure out why she'd be concerned with his appearance, why she'd want to keep playing with him, why she wouldn't just step back and laugh and let it all be once the knot was gone. His hands gripped onto his knees as the steady, easy caresses continued. All he'd done was hold still, let his guard down the slightest bit, and she . . .

Her fingers ran through his hair, fingertips against his scalp, searching for tangles—or was she? There weren't tangles at the back of his head, but she skimmed over that a few more times anyway, gently encouraging him to look down instead of stare dumbly at her stomach. And there wasn't anything _to_ tangle at the base of his neck, where her thumbs pressed against his skin and rubbed smooth, careful circles. It took a singular act of willpower to jolt him out of placid acceptance. This wasn't a favor. This wasn't playing. This was completely inappropriate and he shouldn't be letting her and he had to stop her and**—**

"Gaara . . ." Her hands settled gently against his shoulders, squeezed. "Is this ok?"

It was terrible. And at that moment, reality sank in: that she'd been entirely too sympathetic, had gotten entirely too close, had fallen in step with him and his siblings with an ease he couldn't even _begin_ to comprehend. And . . . His lips pulled back from his teeth with an emotion lost between pain and anger, his eyes widening hopelessly. And he'd let her.

"Yeah," he replied, because he couldn't shove her away this time, he couldn't tell her to stop, and above all else, he couldn't, couldn't, _couldn't_ let her see the expression on his face.

He felt himself shake as her fingers slipped inside the collar of his shirt for easier access to his shoulders, felt the clenched muscles of his stomach shudder hard enough that she had to notice. She made a slight, whispery noise that may have been compassionate and may have been his name in response, her right hand shifting to cup the back of his neck. He hadn't noticed her leaning in, but could tell by how his hair brushed against her body, by how the warmth of her became that much more . . . oppressive? Comforting?

He wanted to lean in to her, though, wanted that warmth against his face, wanted the comfort and the terror of it all. He wanted to wrap himself around her, wanted to hide the two of them somewhere that these touches wouldn't matter, where he'd have time to reacquaint himself with the softness of her and the way her skin had felt against his. But if he couldn't do that . . .

His hands unclenched slowly, one circling around behind her. Sakura shifted as his fingertips brushed the back of her knee, but she didn't step away. Relieved, encouraged, he settled his palm against the skin her shin wraps didn't cover and her shorts didn't reach, cupping the back of her thigh. And the warmth, the texture, the way she felt against his hand . . . Soft. But then again, she _was_ soft, terribly soft to have forgiven and accepted him so easily, based on a few hours' worth of readings and a couple talks with his siblings and the desperately clung-to belief that he really _had_ changed**—**

Her left arm moved, coming to rest across his shoulders as the hand on the back of his neck started a slow, careful kneading. It was almost an embrace, almost enough, almost . . . What the hell was _wrong_ with him?

And she was probably laughing to herself, having brought the Kazekage that low in that short an amount of time. Sudden distrust shocked him away from his enjoyment, his craving. If she _was_ laughing at him, it'd be a betrayal, one he'd fully deserve for having allowed this farce to continue . . . and rather than suffer it again, he'd kill her on the spot and deal with the consequences later.

Jaw clenching, he braced himself and looked up.

There wasn't the slightest trace of humor on her features, in the wide green eyes that met his. He couldn't place the emotions that were there . . . but her gestures gave them away well enough. It was shyness that made her hand hitch as she tucked a stray lock of hair behind his ear, tenderness in the way her fingers lingered against the back of his neck, acceptance in the way she didn't flinch from his unblinking stare. The combination shook his defenses, but left him with the bone-deep certainty that if he pulled her to him for the embrace his pounding heart and clenching chest demanded, she wouldn't pull away.

And someone walked in the door and ruined it all.

At the sound of the approaching footstep, both he and Sakura jolted like academy children caught misbehaving. "I forgot my**—**" the errant medic started—then froze like a startled animal. "Kazekage-sama . . ."

Gaara straightened, trying to appear nonchalant. It was nothing. The ninja had just walked in on the girl standing in front of him. He hadn't really gotten a chance to see anything remotely incriminating . . .

Except for the way Sakura turned a shade of red to almost match her top.

_Shit._

"We were just leaving." The words came out sounding like he'd bitten the syllables off and spit them back out. "Ruined it all" didn't cut it. The damned medic looked entirely too pleased with his new knowledge, Sakura had backed away and was poorly feigning indifference, and he . . . He _wanted._ In ways he didn't fully understand and to degrees that frightened him, he _wanted._

He jerked to his feet, collecting his paperwork with one swipe of his hand. When it didn't immediately look like Sakura would follow, he reached for her as well, his palm pressing against the small of her back—and at the warmth of her body, immediately regretted it.

He didn't quite shove her out the door. Not quite. But with full knowledge of how easy it would be to spin her back to him, to force the issue at hand, his actions were barely ranking as civil. Once outside of the room, he immediately started walking, unsurprised when she kept up his brisk pace from beside him.

Like companions. Like normal. Like he'd just probably put her in more danger by intimating that there was something between them that needed hidden, by keeping her close enough that someone might chose to hurt her in an attempt to hurt him. Growling under his breath, he chose hallways almost at random; part of himself trying to find the time necessary to calm down, part of himself eyeing doorways and corners as places to pull her for only a few seconds of sweet, flawless privacy.

He stopped walking. Even if the medic's conclusions were erroneous—they _definitely _were, there was nothing of any sort going on between him and the girl—the danger would be the same . . . Unless he turned around, found the man, and silenced him before anyone else heard so much as a whisper of rumor. And her . . . The amorphous craving in him sharpened to a focus, suggesting a different, seductive sort of violence; one meant for secluded places, with her soft and warm and curving even if her hands tried to batter him away, even if the memory sifting out from Shukaku's thoughts told him that face-down, she wouldn't be able to bite him back.

Gaara shook his head to clear the images away. No. The Kazekage would not murder and rape the people he was supposed to protect. And there was no outlet for his anger over how the thought had even gained any purchase in his mind, because he was its only focus.

"Gaara . . ." She stepped into his line of sight, the tenseness of her expression telling him that she'd noted his distress and was unsure if he'd turn on her. "Where are we going?"

He wouldn't turn on her. He couldn't. Naruto would hate him and . . . And she would, too. And then she wouldn't smile at him the same way, wouldn't be so open around him, and would certainly never want to share any quiet moments again, caring and understanding and soft against him.

"I don't know."


	11. Coil

These chapter sizes have gone completely out of control.

Fanfictiondotnet tried to thwart my uploading . . . Shame!

* * *

Trapped, he needed a moment to sort everything out. He had _absolutely_ no idea what to do.

Gaara took a deep breath, his right hand automatically reaching up for his forehead. The dull ache burgeoning under his clutching fingers could easily be the girl's fault, but what he needed to worry about the most was his own condition. With a grimace, he mentally shoved the parade of replays and potential scenarios out of the forefront of his thoughts. He needed to think about rational things, things that needed seen to. Not her. And the way his stomach still twisted on itself gave him the perfect means.

His fingers twitched. If she reached for him, he'd reach back, regardless of where the gesture would take them. But he couldn't think of that.

He took a deep breath, deliberating his options. If he wanted to heal quickly and intended to shut his growling stomach up, he needed food. Every opportunity for such seemed blocked, though. The markets and vendors outside could easily supply him with both food and the face time necessary to help persuade Sand that he really was alive and well . . . but he still had no idea how any of their loyalties could lay. Getting a meal would require a careful examination of who'd been there for how long, to gauge how potentially safe they could be. It'd be much easier to avoid that route altogether.

But the relatively neutral-territory kitchens under the administrative building would probably have at least a few of his advisors. Even though their presence did come in handy at times, he'd probably created more problems with them by refusing to immediately put Sakura aside. And with the thought of their earlier queries and how their critical observations would multiply exponentially should he show up there with her in tow, Gaara decided that he didn't want them to see him.

And everything was coming back to her again. A suspicious glance in her direction found her watching him, the faint downward turn of her lips evidence of her worry.

And damn it, he still wanted her alone.

His usual place to retreat to for solitude was his apartment . . . but his kitchen had been emptied of all soups and perishables the night before. And even though that direction would narrow things down to just her and him, to a much more intimate setting, he wasn't sure how to deal with that particular temptation just yet.

But it seemed she wanted to deal with him. Hesitantly, Sakura took a short step closer. "Gaara . . . Back there . . ."

He'd told himself that he'd deal with the girl. And now, he_ had_ to deal with the girl.

Forehead furrowed in concern, she seemed to be searching for words. And the words that came . . . completely skirted the issue. "Are you sure you're all right?"

Perfectly fine without her. Not as assuaged as he'd be with her hands on his skin again. She was incredibly stressful to be around and he was fairly certain he hated her.

Since she wouldn't address things, he would. "Why are you doing this?"

Sakura blinked confusedly. "Doing what?"

"This . . ." He gestured sharply at her, at the distance between them, in the direction from which they'd come. "All of this. This isn't _necessary."_

"I can be nice if I want to." Her up-tilted chin dared him to argue with the statement.

_Steal you away,_ they'd said.

"Your _reasons,_ Sakura."

By the time he realized what he'd said, it was too late to withdraw the last word. He hadn't intended to use her name, didn't like the ease with which it had rolled off his tongue. But she hadn't noticed, it seemed, having focused more on the demand than the delivery.

"Because . . . because I understand why Naruto said it wasn't fair."

He'd been prepared for a fight. This new angle took him completely by surprise, dumping cold water over both his temper and libido; and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't detect any sign of deceit in her eyes or body language. "What?"

"He said . . . that you'd had it harder, that it'd been worse for you than it was for him. And . . . and I didn't get it, didn't _see_ until we were back here."

She'd seen his advisors try to have him killed, seen his villagers react with distrust and horror, and seen . . .

"The records they have here, from when you were a child . . . I almost couldn't believe them. I didn't _want_ to believe them. There were pages and pages of . . . completely dispassionate documentation, everything from what you'd eaten that day to what you'd destroyed, to ways they bribed or coerced or drove you into doing things." She bit her lower lip, white teeth worrying the flesh to a darker shade of pink. "Because the way to control a child that can't be touched to be disciplined and that can maim people even by accident . . . is apparently to emotionally brutalize him into behaving."

His past had hurt her. Not in a way he understood, not in the way her lungs had strained and ribs had creaked against the grip of his sand . . . but with pages of cool, uncaring words, it'd somehow hurt her nonetheless. Gaara's throat tightened unpleasantly, and he blamed it on residual damage from his captivity. "How far did you get in the records?"

The glance up to the kanji tattooed on his forehead gave it away before she replied. "Far enough."

But if that was her reasoning, because she'd seen some records written by his uncle and had probably seen what'd _become_ of his uncle . . . his uncle the medic, who'd faced him as determinedly and taken care of him almost as surely as she did . . . He glared. "Stop looking at me differently because of it. I survived it, nothing more. It's all any of us can do."

"No, you didn't." She shook her head, smiling a gentle, sad smile and taking another half-step towards him. "You didn't just survive it. You came out better than they made you. After your father died, you could've easily stepped in and destroyed Sand for everything I saw in those volumes . . . but you didn't. Instead, you stepped in and helped rebuild. I . . . I respect that."

If the way she treated him was how she showed respect, he might be glad she didn't dislike him.

"You're an idealist," he told her.

"You're a pessimist," she returned. "And you're entirely too tense."

Illogically, he wondered if that meant he could get her to rub his shoulders again later.

_You mean let her roll you over and rub your belly,_ Shukaku grumbled.

He ignored that bit.

Sakura took another step closer, bringing herself within arm's reach. "Gaara." Her voice softened as her expression shifted to entreating. "I won't tell anyone about . . . earlier. If you want."

"It doesn't really matter," he replied bitterly. The medic had already been there and seen them together, and the only definite way of shutting them both up—killing them—was out of the picture. And the medic had been on his own for too long anyway and could have said anything to anyone, which would make the number of people he'd have to kill skyrocket, and . . . "It's done and over with."

It'd been easier to get things done when there wasn't practically an entire village watching what he was up to.

But worrying was weakness. And letting someone stop him from getting things done was giving them power over him. And how the hell was he supposed to be a good Kazekage if he couldn't make decisions for himself?

To hell with the medic, the watchers, and his advisors too. He'd go out and be seen and eat lunch like he didn't have anything to worry about. And he'd have at his side his own personal medic, whose ability to deal with poisons completely crushed anything Sand's specialists had to offer.

"Let's go," he told her. "The markets have plenty of places to eat."

"Okay," she answered—then glanced at him a little too innocently as they started walking again. "Who's treating?"

"I am."

"Good," she smiled; and her step gained a little more bounce. "You _do_ make an awful lot more than I do—"

"You're testing the food anyway, medic."

A glance to the side showed that yes, she _had_ stuck her tongue out at him. "It's always business with you, isn't it?"

He hadn't been aware that he was supposed to be fun.

Whatever she picked up from his expression made her smile. "Because otherwise, that'd make you an awful date."

"Not a date," he answered automatically.

Unfazed, her smile didn't waver. "I know. It'll be a working lunch, then?"

"Yeah. There's a lot of paperwork for me to get through." He frowned, considering. Once they were done eating, he'd head back through the administrative building to trade the work still in his hands for the work that needed done. And then . . . Well, if he didn't want her in his room and couldn't leave her elsewhere, he'd have to figure out something else to do with her.

Shukaku concisely told him to just fuck her simple and get it over with so he'd _shut up_ about her for more than a few minutes.

Mercifully oblivious, she kept talking. "Are your advisors at least helping you out with some of it?"

"Yeah. There's not as much as there could be." Which meant at least a few had picked up some of the slack to make things easier for him.

"They're not all bad, then. Just misguided."

That was probably the most polite—and accurate—way he'd ever heard the group described. "I think that's how most people are."

The wind had picked up from the last time he'd been outside. Gaara blinked up at the cloudless afternoon sky, then turned to the girl beside him. "The markets are this way."

Whatever thoughts she had during the walk were kept to herself, green eyes watching the ground as he found that a good number of people apparently were interested in his appearance. He tried to keep track of the expressions turned in his direction—happiness, indifference, approval, distrust—but the sheer volume of people as they approached their destination soon made the task impossible. And then the markets spread out before them, an array of brightly-colored shades and open-air vendors. Sakura smiled appreciatively from beside him as the stiff breeze brought them both the mouthwatering scent of street food and the dull roar of the crowds. "Well," she said, "where to start?"

"Where you left off," he replied, as he led them towards the closest stall. "You didn't get very far into what you knew of Orochimaru yesterday." To their left, someone vied for their shopping partner's attention with an elbow. Two sets of eyes examined him, as if doubting his existence; then he nodded to them in acknowledgment. They returned the gesture and kept going. Then the scent of the nearest food stall distracted him, and recovering by eating once again became his highest priority.

So she described what she knew of Orochimaru's part in the Sannin battle as he devoured skewers of roasted chicken that smelled like ginger and sesame, enlightened him as to the connections between Orochimaru and the Akatsuki while helping him finish off a small tray of dumplings at a shaded bench. But by the time his hunger's edge had worn off and he'd paused to sit back and contentedly fold his hands over his stomach, she'd decidedly taken her narrative in another direction. And instead of sure, confident words, her tone shifted to hesitant, voice faltering occasionally as she discussed the other thing that tied the Akatsuki and Orochimaru together: her old teammate.

The food in his stomach was no longer pleasantly filling, having somehow transmuted itself to a heavy, solid lump. And he would _not_ let talk of the Uchiha spoil his lunch.

"I don't want to hear about Sasuke anymore."

Startled but already on the defensive, Sakura looked up at him. "He's part of the—"

In the way she'd been telling it, he'd become much more than a side connection. "You told me about that. Now tell the rest without him."

Her chin lowered as her lips twisted into a scowl. "And if I think of how he fits into things and how he's still out there as I'm trying to finish the rest of your story?"

"Then tell the rest while you think about how Leaf needs better hunter-nins." But the expression that shifted across her features told him that it wasn't that simple. "You mean the Hokage didn't just send hunter-nins or teams after him? Leaf's waited _this long_ without worrying about any kind of search?" Sakura shook her head, and Gaara felt his face twist in disbelief. Was Leaf full of morons? Specialized bloodlines weren't something a ninja village could just wave goodbye at. They had to be protected, both from accidental destruction and from assimilation by other villages. And from there . . . Gaara had a good idea of how dramatically his own abilities had improved in the past few years. If the Uchiha's had done anything remotely similar . . . It would have made _sense _to take the traitor out as soon after his defection as possible, while his potential hadn't yet been realized.

Unless . . .

"Naruto's worked up over Sasuke too, isn't he?"

The tense, angry line between her eyebrows softened a little. "Yeah. Sasuke's like a brother to him, and—"

"And the Hokage is letting you_— encouraging_ you to act like this over him?"

She nodded suspiciously.

Gaara scowled. "Why?"

Bewildered, she stuttered out an answer. "Because . . . he's our teammate, and . . ."

"And it's easier to breed Uchiha children than to rebuild a bloodline with the information dissected from a dead body," he finished for her. "Why else would a village want to bring someone so obviously unstable and untrustworthy back into their midst?"

He watched her swallow her retorts, guessing from her grimace that any comments would involve his own past trustworthiness and stability—and that she'd bitten her tongue on them to spare him the sting. Knowing the words were there, he continued speaking in order to explain himself. "I never turned on or ran from my village—even when the assassins were sent after me."

"I know," she said quietly; but her voice had softened and she was watching the ground again. Then: "Maybe . . . the people at Leaf do it because they care for him."

"Enough to risk him turning on or running from you all again?" Was that _really_ how they did things in Leaf? They _couldn't_ all be that soft-hearted—there was no way a ninja village could survive like that. But she seemed bent on proving that Leaf's entire objective could be based on emotion. Curious, he followed his unanswered question with another. "When I find the traitors here, would you tell me to forget the pain suffered and lives lost because of them?"

"It's not my place to tell you how to run your village, Kazekage-sama."

Her voice was cool and perfectly proper, the words spoken in a tone that made his teeth grind together. If rattled enough, she'd retreat into duty and decorum. Rattle him enough, though, and solving his problems through violence became that much more of a tempting option. Or solving Leaf's problems by bashing some people's heads together. But he'd spent years working on his control while struggling with rationalizing his bloodlust away, and he'd be damned—and dead—if he let himself fall back into old habits that easily.

_"Stop that."_ The words came out harsher than he intended. Gaara took a slow, calming breath, searching for words to soften the hurt glare she directed at him. "Bowing and scraping isn't you, either."

She sighed, then nodded, gesturing with one hand hopelessly. "I just . . ."

He didn't want to be inundated with any more defenses, didn't like the pained tension that showed around her eyes. Leaning closer brought his command of her attention, brought her head up and stopped her faltering attempts at speech. The caution in her face and posture made it easier for him to speak softly, convincingly. "I don't want to hear about Sasuke."

"Then what _do_ you want to hear about?"

There was still fight left in her, it seemed. Good.

It was his turn to glance down, to examine the way her toes poked out of her sandals. "Tell me . . . about Naruto."

Looking up, he was able to witness her exasperation fading into something softer, more understanding. "What do you want to know about Naruto?"

"I don't know." He considered. "I haven't even seen him for years."

"How much time do we have?"

"As much as you like."

Sakura nodded, watching the ground in front of them. She remained quiet as he led them in yet another direction, apparently organizing her thoughts until after Gaara located Temari's favorite restaurant: one with a shady patio and a reputation for good noodles. It seemed the best place to start her story about her teammate was the beginning. "The first time I saw Naruto, he was running from the Third Hokage. I didn't know who he was, or what he'd done, but . . . I remember thinking that someone would have to be _all kinds_ of trouble to have the _Hokage_ chase them." She smiled faintly. "And I was right. He really was _all_ kinds of trouble."

The things he'd wanted to hear came out in bits and fragments, brief scenarios and half-remembered images. And as their food arrived, he learned Naruto's story through the eyes of someone who'd come to care for and respect him.

Well, maybe "respect" the blond in the same way she "respected" him.

"And he gets into the women's bath houses _all _the time. He always has for some reason, the pervert . . ." Sakura rolled her eyes at the table, then turned a questioning look to him—a look that quickly devolved into horror. "I mean . . . Never mind, okay?"

"Okay." To cover his amusement at her discomfiture, Gaara started sorting through the papers he still carried. "I'm still listening."

"Time to camp out for a little bit?"

"Yeah."

It really was pleasant, he decided—skimming the paperwork, listening to the quiet murmur of her voice along with the sounds of the people around them—and of course, working his way through the platters of food and pitchers of icy-cold water.

He wondered how many people noticed that he didn't eat anything until after it had passed through her hands.

Amidst his ponderings, Sakura's story trailed off. "And then . . ."

Gaara looked up to see her twirling her remaining noodles around her chopsticks thoughtfully. "And then?"

"You said you didn't want to hear about Sasuke." The flinty tone of her words showed a bit of edge and temper, informing him that his lack of diplomacy earlier had created limits.

"I don't mind hearing about him if it's still about Naruto," he told her. Then, because jabbing at her seemed to raise her spirits: "You weren't telling me about Orochimaru before."

"I was for a little while?" she tried—but smiled faintly anyway and started transferring her noodles to his tray, one by one. After a few seconds' thought, she offered a question along with the food: "You don't like him from that many years ago, huh?"

"It's not that." Sure, he'd hated the Uchiha then for being his competition, for the arrogance that mirrored his own, and for giving him his first serious wound; but the other ninja had subsequently proffered a far more compelling reason to be despised. "He had _everything._ Friends, approval, people that cared for him . . . and he threw it all away, because he couldn't think beyond his own past." Gaara glared at the tabletop, considering how much he himself would've given for what the Uchiha had so selfishly tossed aside. "What am I _supposed_ to think of him?"

A pause; then she put her chopsticks down and reached across the space between them, her hand clasping his wrist gently. "I . . . don't know."

She'd still called the traitor her teammate, though, even years after the betrayal. Gaara held his tongue for a few seconds before asking another question. "After everything that's happened with him, do you think you could forgive him, and care for him?"

This time there was no hesitation. "Yes."

It didn't make sense for her to, wouldn't make sense for anyone to . . . but it was still good, in its own way. If she could forgive the Uchiha for everything, then Gaara would stand that much better a chance of having people be able to forgive him.

But when he looked back to her, she was watching him like he'd said something strange.

Rather than dwell on that, he mulled over his own opinion of the people around them. He'd had difficulty trusting the villagers of Sand even before the Akatsuki's agent had made him see everyone around him as a potential mass-murdering traitor, and he knew that it would be a long time before he could ever be able to relax at all around them. And even before that, he'd found himself unable to have faith in the change of heart of some of Sand's kunoichi, who'd run screaming in terror from him as a child and who'd shunned him up until his inauguration, but who'd still shot him speculative glances afterwards. But would the girl in front of him think of things in the same way?

"Sakura . . ." The name came easier this time. "Could you ever really trust him again?"

She looked away, and he felt her hesitation as surely as the slight tension in her hand. Finally, she replied. "I don't think I like it when you're right."

It took a few minutes for her to start up again, offering him something carefully complimentary. "You should talk to Naruto sometime."

He blinked at her, confused.

"He's always wanted to be Hokage. And . . ." Sakura paused. "Well, he doesn't act like you. He's loud and rash and . . . It'd be good if you showed him how you did things, you know? Maybe he'd pick up some pointers."

After everything, she was telling him that he acted how she thought a kage should. "I can do that."

Once he'd finished his paperwork and rejected eating more in favor of grocery shopping, Sakura'd moved past the things he'd needed to hear about, leaving them free to just talk. Conversation no longer had to be about business, allowing him to reflect upon the ease with which they could interact.

"The man insisted on an all-jounin, all-female bodyguard team, then waited until they were on their mission to declare himself the best fighter of any hidden village and challenge every kunoichi there to hand-to-hand combat."

"You mean you got to deal with that guy, too?" Sakura laughed.

"Not until Temari broke his arm in two places. _Then_ I had to deal with him."

At one point, an added weight made him look down to see that she'd added a small bag of oranges to his basket. Sakura blinked innocently at him when he frowned. "What? They're good for you."

"Okay." After a moment, he decided that if she could try to take care of him, he could return in kind. It wasn't like he was sure what to do with her in the meantime besides take care of her, anyway. "I'll have someone take you to get more clothes tomorrow." What she was wearing was probably all right for Leaf, but highly impractical for Sand's climate. Gaara wasn't sure what would get her first: dehydration, or multiple degrees of sunburn. "Something that covers you better," he elaborated, gesturing towards his own clothing: the large-collared, long-sleeved utilitarian garment that most of Sand favored. "Like this."

Sakura didn't look enthused. "But . . . _Long sleeves._ And that collar . . . It looks like it'd be awfully hot."

He held one arm out, slightly away from his body so she could see his sleeve better. "It's _supposed_ to have long sleeves. Clothing like this helps keep you cooler."

The disheartened expression broke, and she giggled. "Gaara, that doesn't make any sense."

It was nice to listen to her laugh, nice to know that he was the thing to make her happy. She was easy to get along with after all, he decided. That was nice, too. And a little batting back and forth didn't seem to offend her at all.

"So says the ninja wearing heels."

She sputtered. "The Fifth wears heels."

Ok, so it didn't offend her much. But it didn't help that Sakura's teacher wasn't known for bouts of rationality. "People say the Fifth Hokage hides her true age and drinks sake like water."

"People say the Fifth Kazekage eats babies and howls at the moon when it's full."

Gaara blinked, taken aback only until Sakura laughed delightedly. "Okay, I made that up." Then, after a second, she touched the back of his hand with one fingertip, her voice softening. "Hey, remember, okay? She's a Hokage, not a saint. No one's ever gonna be completely good—so if she's the best person for the position and is able to buckle down and get business done, then . . . well, that's all that's required, you know?"

He might be able to pick up some interesting bits of information from her, it seemed—though not set in the standard "You should . . ." manner most people directed at him, the insights and ideas seemed sound. "Yeah."

To their far left, the barely audible conversation of a small group of shinobi became a little too clear.

"He's got a Leaf medic taking care of him now?"

"It seems like it's working both ways." Then, after a pause: "She's the only one that came back alive."

Shit.

A glance at Sakura showed that she'd heard the speakers perfectly well, and the tightening of her lips and jawline told him that she hadn't liked their conclusions about her teammates. He couldn't think of anything heartening to say before she spoke. "Do you think everyone's okay out there?" She sucked her lower lip into her mouth, worrying the skin between her teeth. "Like . . . It's taking them all so long to get back."

It _was_ taking too long, entirely too long. Gaara wasn't sure about the first question; so he answered what he could. "If any of them but Chiyo-baasama have any choice in the matter, they'll avoid coming in during the daytime. The desert can kill people that aren't used to it."

She didn't look encouraged.

Kankurou would know something witty to say to distract her, bolster her. Temari would be able to wrap an arm around her, to comfort her without it being unseemly. He . . . was neither of them.

"I saw in my paperwork last night that Temari took two of the best teams," he told her. "All of them seasoned jounin, all perfectly capable of getting themselves or other people out of hostile situations untouched." Then, because it didn't seem enough: "I had the number of sentries increased, as well. The minute anyone is seen, I'll know about it. _We'll_ know about it."

Her reply was a quiet, sincere, "Thank you."

She was still young, still human. There were limits to her endurance that he couldn't ignore. And it was just another form of protecting her, after all . . . Gaara stepped a little closer and tried to be inconspicuous about the way he set his hand against her back, rubbing the tips of his fingers against the tensed muscles there. Sakura glanced up at him as if she was unsure of how to take the gesture; then her shoulders slumped slightly, head bowing and eyes closing as she reached for a fistful of his sleeve's fabric. And the relaxation showed her weariness—not physical, but mental.

He might not be able to protect her from what they didn't know about, but he could certainly try.

"Don't forget that it takes a given time to get here, even for Sand's ninjas," he told her. "If he's evading pursuit, it may take him longer."

"I know."

He was petting her again, in public and on purpose this time. His family hadn't exactly been the type for physical affection, so Gaara wasn't sure if he was even doing . . . _whatever_ it was in any reasonable manner. But it wasn't about affection as much as comfort, he told himself. So her hand on his wrist, his fingertips against her spine . . . It was still about grounding each other, holding each other up.

Yeah, he could handle being alone with her.

"Gaara . . . Do you think everything's gonna be okay?"

"I hope so."

**ooo**

They made it halfway back to his apartment before the shinobi headed them off.

"Kazekage-sama, an ambassador is here from Hidden Mist to see you." The ninja leaned a little closer, his voice dropping conspiratorially. "It's _supposed_ to be about strengthening ties, but we had one of our shinobi impersonate a merchant and talk to him. He thinks you're dead and someone's posing as you to keep the peace."

Gaara refused to let himself dwell on what it meant for a village that far away to have gotten wind of his predicament. It could mean anything, of course—even that Leaf had someone leaking information. "We'll meet him on the balcony of the secondary conference room in ten minutes."

The ninja knelt to touch his knuckles to the floor and departed before Gaara even realized that he'd automatically included Sakura in the proceedings. Still, he decided, it wouldn't hurt to bring her along as well.

"It won't help if I just tell them that you're really alive, huh?" Sakura asked, her voice tinged with sarcasm.

"Doubt it. We'll put the food away first."

"I'm glad to see where your priorities are," she returned, lips twitching with the start of a smile.

"Yeah."

Someone had left her backpack squarely in the center of his couch. By the look of surprise on her face, he assumed it was Kankurou—the presumptuous, painted-up bastard.

"It won't take long," he told her, after watching her cover a yawn with the back of her hand. "I've done this a few times. Once they realize I'm not just here as a figurehead, things will be over quickly enough."

"You make it sound like they'll run away."

"Maybe."

"Maybe?" She arched one eyebrow, and he could pick up on her mood lifting a little by the set of her shoulders. "That's not very heartening."

Gaara felt himself smiling in return as he set the oranges on the counter. "Are you expecting me to be a saint?"

This time she giggled. "I think you just made a joke. Are you _sure_ you feel okay?"

He felt fine—at least until the first few minutes of their meeting with the graying, blue-clad ambassador. Mist-nin Goro Shuichi had definitely been given some sort of misinformation, if the delivery of his questions and observations were any indication. But what Gaara'd picked up of diplomatic intricacies over the years told him that the man might just be baiting him. Lashing out at the wrong time and at the wrong person could result in anything from reparation settlements to war.

If it was just a matter of diplomacy, it didn't matter what the man had heard. Gaara's mission now was damage control.

"I heard about the medic when I was in the streets earlier, Kazekage-sama. I was concerned."

Gaara strode to the balcony's ledge, turning his face to the rising wind as the others followed. "She's here as a symbol of Leaf's support." Then, because the reminder wouldn't hurt: "Sand and Leaf's alliance is still strong."

"I would've thought there'd be more problems, with that attack on Leaf your father led a few years ago."

Gaara scowled. It hadn't been his father then, but Orochimaru in disguise—though he wouldn't tell the man any differently. "I'm not my father."

"It's probably a good thing," Shuichi replied smoothly. "Otherwise, the Leaf girl might have to worry about—"

"About nothing while she's here," Gaara finished abruptly. He didn't know what kind of bastardized, strung-together rumors the man had picked up, but he was now certain that this was an attempt to provoke him into a violent retort. And if the rumors had come from someone with a reason to encourage him to lash out . . .

_They're trying to bait you into getting yourself killed,_ Kankurou'd said.

There'd be no repercussions if he crushed any secrets out of the Mist-nin and discreetly buried the remains, though.

Sakura's elbow dug sharply into his left side. When he turned to her, still lost in red daydreams, she imperturbably gestured at the horizon. "What's that?"

The pounding drive of his temper skipped a beat at the sight: brown, towering clouds that seemed to grow from the desert's floor itself, and that could only mean one thing. "Sandstorm." And as a plan fell together and presented itself to him, Gaara turned to Shuichi consideringly. "Are you familiar with sandstorms, Goro-san?"

"No," came the cautious reply.

He almost smiled.

"The problem with a sandstorm . . . is that it's deceptive. People who don't know better don't pay attention to its properties instead of its appearance. Take that," Gaara said, gesturing towards the encroaching, billowing mass. "It seems like it's moving slowly enough to outmaneuver. And it's only a bit of sand being blown around. Nothing to take seriously."

The man watched him suspiciously, as if questioning what he was _really_ saying, and Gaara strained to keep his tone conversational.

"So the first mistake was to underestimate it. The second is to get too close. When that happens, it's too late. Then you realize that it's moving a lot faster than you expected, that the winds are a lot stronger, and that the little bit of sand blowing around is enough to blacken the sky. Some people are stupid and try to blunder along anyway. Then it's nothing to make a turn in the wrong direction, get lost . . . From there, the storm could go for days, could be dumping sand instead of just blowing it around. And then the person that didn't know any better is buried." He blinked thoughtfully at the horizon. "Every once in a while a merchant train gets caught in one. We sometimes don't find the bodies for months."

The hesitation was there in Shuichi's silence: a stutter of the man's ego, a falter in his bravado, more than a hint of worry. It was perfect.

"Have you ever seen one of our sunsets, Goro-san?"

It was a call to battle, both for himself and the ninja beside him. If Gaara could make the man eat his own unsubstantiated rumors, all the better. And the people below would be waiting and watching as well, to see if their Kazekage was able to do what Sakura'd said wasn't possible: to step back in and carry on as if nothing had happened.

But if he tried this and failed . . .

_Don't strain yourself,_ she'd told him.

But he needed to stop it; not just for show or for Sand, but for any potential travelers coming from the east—travelers with little desert experience who might otherwise be caught unaware.

And so what if he'd been almost dead a few days ago, anyway? He had work to do.

He took a deep breath, his hands discreetly forming the seals needed. The storm's size wouldn't matter very much—once the process he planned started, it would fall almost like dominoes. The sand he needed was already in the air. And one by one, the grains paused mid-flight, slowly but certainly beginning to form a thin wall.

_Every once in a while,_ he thought, _there comes a moment when you realize that something, somewhere, has gone horribly wrong. _Gaara's eyes narrowed as he shifted his attention towards his chosen adversary. _I want to know when you recognize that moment, Shuichi._

The older man's open mouth and the way his wide-eyed stare had fixed on the horizon told him that point had been reached.

Sakura's hand pressed against his side. He felt the tension in her touch, saw the faint worry on her face when he discreetly glanced in her direction, and knew that everything from the elbow earlier to the chakra she silently offered now was done in an attempt to keep him safe. But if he could shield an entire city from the biggest bomb he'd ever seen, then something this routine should be easy.

_It's ok_ay, he mouthed to her. And with a gesture and a breathed command, the sand he'd immobilized blasted in the direction from which it'd come with such violence that he felt the air around him pull to follow. He sent chakra and sand behind the first wave to roll over the remainder for as far as his strength would allow, dragging as much of the stuff down from the air as possible. And as his reach thinned, so did the storm, until the only thing left in that direction . . . was sunlight.

Gaara took a stabilizing breath and willed the tremors in his calves into nonexistence. Shun would call him a showoff. So would Baki, and Kankurou, and probably Temari too. But with his consciousness spread that far outwards, he could revel in his still-ability, could bask in the sun's last rays like he could in the certainty that all of this—from the small whirlwinds still tearing up the western desert to the re-illuminated buildings of Hidden Sand—was his.

From somewhere below them, a few people set up a ragged cheer, and Sakura muffled a cough that may have been a giggle. Gaara glanced over the ledge in the unseen group's direction, then turned to the Mist-nin, his features completely blank and voice dripping politeness. "Enjoy the sunset with us, Goro-san."

But like he'd told Sakura earlier: after a display like that, the man wouldn't want to stick around to see much more.

**ooo**

"You're _awful."_

It seemed the humor in her had finally bubbled over. She'd waited only until they were out of the dignitary's presence—and immediately burst into giggles. And as if that wasn't enough, it seemed she'd decided to drag him with her.

"Terrible."

He could share in her amusement, he decided. He could smile and watch her walk beside him as she threw accusations that he'd heard hundreds of times before; words that somehow, under this circumstance, had lost any ability to hurt.

"Impossible," she laughed, and stepped ahead of him, turning around and walking backwards in order to smile in his face as they continued their strange procession. They easily matched their footsteps to each other's, and he took satisfaction in how she trusted his direction and pace as guidance.

"You are the _biggest_ jerk I've ever met."

Well, _that_ was a new one.

Her expression shifted closer to serious as her shoulders hit his door. "I _told_ you to go easy on yourself. But _no._ You can't just glare and threaten like a _normal_ kage, you had to show off and scare the hell out of that guy."

Scared the other guy . . . but not her, it seemed.

She didn't flinch when he leaned towards her, utterly enthralled by her nerve and joking and proximity. The scent of her hair tickled his nose, and he realized that she'd used his shampoo that morning. "And?"

Sakura huffed and jabbed him in the chest with her finger. "And you don't know how to do anything but go all out, do you?"

And with that, she'd implied that he still had no sense of restraint. But he did, he told himself. He could show her.

"Maybe," he said; and his hand slipped past her hip to unlock the door. Her eyes widened slightly as he shifted even closer to her, her lips parting enough to pull a breath in through her teeth—then she giggled and darted to the side, squeezing past his arm and through the door to disappear into his apartments. And though his muscles bunched and tensed as every instinct in him demanded that he give pursuit, he didn't move—mostly because he wasn't sure what he'd do once he caught up with her.

"Kazekage-sama."

Gaara took a deep breath and reminded himself that it was a public hallway, and he had no right to be angry with people for being there to witness whatever the hell was going on with the Leaf chuunin. Even if the witness _was_ Shun, standing there with a stack of papers tucked under one arm and an almost intrigued expression on his face. "I saw the diplomat on his way out."

And now it was time to see how his actions of the day had gone over. "The damage?"

Shun's eyebrows rose speculatively. "You did well. The man will doubtlessly spread rumors from here back to Hidden Mist about how the Kazekage is not a man to be underestimated."

It'd gone over perfectly, then. "And about the girl . . ."

The lines around Shun's eyes deepened, though the man refused to smile. "If she's what it takes to have you like this—acting almost _normal_ even if you do insist on acting out—then I don't care if you keep her. As long as you continue to see to your duties, of course." He stepped forward, offering the stack of papers. "You need these."

Gaara's lack of enthusiasm probably came through with his noncommittal, monosyllabic reply.

"Have a good night, Kazekage-sama."

"Thanks," he replied lamely as he watched his advisor walk away. The man was too strange sometimes.

He found Sakura examining his bookshelves, running her fingertips over the spines of various volumes. She glanced over at him as he set his paperwork on the table, her lips already curving with a smile. "Is this it for the night, then?"

"Yeah." He'd usually go out and visit the sentries, or watch over the streets on his own. But his options were limited both by her presence as well as by the amount of requests, treaties, and other works requiring his attention and approval.

But with her there to keep the loneliness at bay, things weren't so bad at all.

"Gaara . . ." Green eyes shifted uncertainly, focusing on some part of the floor and giving him time to study her profile. "I'm sorry if I'm inconveniencing you in any way."

His attention was required here, as well. He waited until she looked up again, caught and held her gaze, and found himself already possessing the sincerity he needed. "It's no problem."

It felt like habit already: his relocating her blanket as well as a spare pillow, their taking turns with the bathroom. He still carried the files in with him—there were some things that would be foolhardy, and leaving important paperwork in front of another village's ninja would be one of them—but found himself wondering less about her loyalties and more about if he'd be able to convince her to rub his shoulders again. But when he stepped back into the room, she was already on the couch with the blanket tucked around herself, regarding his emergence with drowsy contentment.

Gaara exhaled slowly, contemplating her features. She was fairly attractive, he decided—her eyes wide and intelligent, her mouth openly expressive, her hands gentle and capable . . . and he wasn't sure how to react to it. He considered the way she watched him, considered his options. Considered how it'd feel to have her fighting against him; how it'd feel to have her struggles lessen and movements slow as she bled out. But even with Shukaku hissing encouragement, the thoughts were completely unsatisfying. Instead he found himself falling back on how it'd feel to have her like before. Warm. Soft. Close and caring, touching him without worry; like it was the most normal thing in the world.

It took him ten casual, deliberate steps to reach her side, as he wondered if there was any way she could guess at the myriad of ways he thought of her. She didn't seem to be guessing, though. Just watching him, unworried and unabashed.

"Gaara . . ." Sakura raised herself up on one elbow and didn't flinch away from his stare, her expression unfailingly, unfalteringly gentle. "Thank you for taking care of me."

He wanted to examine the smooth skin of her cheeks with his fingertips, to see if it was as soft as it looked. Instead, he looked away. "It's nothing."

"Still, you didn't have to."

But he did. There hadn't been an option otherwise.

Searching for a way to explain that to her, he glanced away, instead taking in the lines and angles of her uncovered arm. Worn, scarred, yet strangely defenseless, the relaxed curl of her hand intrigued him. He examined her face for any hint of apprehension first; then he reached out and carefully ran his fingertips up over her palm, tracing the scars and creases up to the smooth, blunt edges of her nails.

"Gaara," she murmured, as her confusion became evident by the line appearing between her eyes. Then, as if she'd come to a decision, she relaxed, her tension fading as her fingers linked trustingly with his.

There was enough room beside her for him, if he so chose.

For a second he let himself imagine it: normalcy, being able to lie down with her and rest, being able to wake up not nauseated from the fear of what he'd lost by letting his control slip. The thought of wrapping himself in that comfort and just letting everything go pulled at him, appealing to him more seductively than the warmth and promised softness of her body.

But that couldn't be his; not if he wanted to avoid risking his very self. And it'd be a dramatic overstepping of bounds, as well; and in regards to her halting acceptance of his touching her hand, it'd certainly result in rejection. He didn't want to imagine her pushing him away, didn't want to see the softness of her expression harden to distrust or sharpen to fear—especially not after having promised himself to show her that he could maintain self-control. But there was always fantasy, always the here and now and the simple, quiet closeness of her hand in his. And for the moment, that might be enough.

He counted said moment out in heartbeats, limiting himself as ruthlessly as he would ration his own water during desert travel—and then he let her go.

Sakura blinked as he released her hand. "Things to get done?"

"Yeah." But he didn't want to move. But as he glanced across the room at the table, he realized that he didn't have to.

If he didn't ask, she wouldn't immediately say no. And it wasn't really _anything,_ anyway—just him changing where he decided to sit. Gaara turned, settling his back against the edge of the couch, and glanced over his shoulder at her to gauge her reaction. The naked uncertainty on her face faded as he made no further movement; then he felt her lay back down and hook her hand in his collar, gripping a fistful of the fabric in a way doubtlessly meant to keep track of his movements. He smiled to himself at the gesture as his sand dragged the table across the room to him. Keeping an eye on him even while she was sleeping . . . She wasn't too terrible a ninja after all.

"Sleep well," he told her, making sure to look over his shoulder to see her smile.

"Okay."

It seemed to take her longer to fall asleep this time. But after a while her breathing finally evened out, the clench of her hand loosening a little. And almost like he'd hoped she would, she finally shifted in her sleep to move against him, curling so her thighs nudged his arm while her stomach and chest pressed against his back. It felt like acceptance, like a surrender. It felt like peace.

He told himself that it was just her looking for warmth. He told himself that she'd drool on his couch more if she hadn't already. But the last thought still waited, half-accepted in the back of his mind: that as long as she stayed there, as if he was her important person and as if that little movement meant she trusted him _that much . . . _he didn't care.

And though he wanted more than anything to reach over and touch her hair where it brushed against her cheek, to cup the swell of her calf in his hand, to climb up on the couch and curl up against her, he knew that if he moved in any significant way, she'd wake. So he held still instead of risking that peaceful moment, choosing instead to drink in the terrible, exquisite sensations of it all.

Warm. Soft.

The girl herself was medicine, he decided. She made him feel comforted, capable, _normal._ And if all he had to do to perpetuate that was be around her . . . Well, that wasn't any kind of problem for him. The rest of his advisors would just have to get used to her.

It was inevitable that it'd come to an end, though. It was still more than an hour before dawn when he felt the hand hooked into his collar tug as her muscles flexed with a sleepy stretch—then she froze, apparently realizing exactly where she was. The first words out of her mouth were a hesitant apology. "I . . . I'm sorry about that . . ."

"It's okay." Then, in an attempt to coax her to relax against him again: "The sun isn't going to come up for a while still."

For a second Sakura _did_ relax a little, even as she tried to inconspicuously shift away from him. Then she sighed and released his shirt. "It doesn't look like I'm gonna sleep any more, though." She grinned ruefully as she sat up, both hands rising to smooth her hair; then gestured towards the bathroom. "Do you mind if I—"

"I don't mind."

As the bathroom's door closed behind her, he leaned back against the couch again, trying to absorb some of her residual warmth. The blanket she'd used still smelled like her. And with her out of the room, he could relax, breathe in the scent, and imagine that she was still there behind him.

After only a short while, it was over. The warmth from her presence faded minutes before the door opened again. Sakura only took a few steps into the room before stopping to watch him curiously. "You didn't move all night, did you?"

"No."

Curiosity sharpened to temper as she gestured to the pile of orange peels beside him. "Then you didn't eat anything besides those all night?"

Great_—_here he was purporting logic, then following his own bleeding heart to sit beside her. "No."

The exasperation in her voice was laced with laughter. "How am I supposed to take care of you if you stop holding up your end of things the second I close my eyes?" Sakura took a few more steps towards him, jerking a thumb back towards the bathroom door. "Go. Get cleaned up or whatever, and I'll have food for you when you're done." He almost missed the last mutter: "Stupid jerk."

The last sounds he heard before he closed the bathroom door behind him were of her going through his refrigerator. Once finished with washing up, he slowed to stillness in front of his mirror. The girl outside was nice to be around, liked taking care of him, wasn't bad to look at, didn't mind him touching her . . . and she was waiting for him. The direction they went from there would hinge upon his actions.

At the kitchen's doorway, he took a moment to watch her. She was still without her leg wraps, and the muscles of her calves sprang into definition and slipped back out again as she shifted from one bare foot to the other. Tendons flexed in the backs of her thighs, and he paused, remembering how she'd felt, how she'd let him touch her only hours before. And even though there was no sense in it, he let himself revel in the fantasy of his hands on her skin; imagining tracing over the smoothness of her thighs, how the warm, round curve of her hip would fit against his palm even as she shifted again so that curve was emphasized, so the dip of her waist deepened beautifully and . . . damn it, she was watching him.

Gaara met her eyes almost guiltily. That was great. _Perfect._ As if waking up in strange situations with him wasn't bad enough, now she'd glanced over her shoulder at the wrong moment and caught him ogling her like some kind of . . .

Well, he _was_ a teenage boy.

Her lips curved hesitantly into a faint smile, and any guilt washed away. No, she didn't mind. After all, with the way she'd been treating him for the past few days . . . _She'd_ been the one to coax him into closeness, practically inviting him to look, to touch . . .

To eat, too. Sakura turned away from him and back to the stove, switching the heat off of a burner and moving a small pot of soup to the side. "Here," she said, offering him a steaming spoonful as he approached. "It's got lots of meat and veggies, lots of protein to help you gain weight back . . . The noodles will be perfect in a minute, too, and if you like it—"

He caught her hand in his and carefully raised it, ignoring the heat of the stock to drink the liquid straight from the spoon she held. Sakura smiled delightedly at the gesture. "This means you like it?"

"Yeah," he said; and his free hand settled against her hip. The other tweaked the spoon from her hand and set it on the counter behind her.

"Gaara . . ."

"Mhm," he replied. The way her body curved with her hip and waist had proven mesmerizing, and he reached for her with his other hand as her back hit the countertop's edge. The smooth, up-and-down motion as he caressed her from hips to ribs and back again . . . was spellbinding.

Her delight faded to caution, then to dejection. "Gaara, we have to talk."

They could talk. Later. But for now, she was warm and close and smelled absolutely _fascinating,_ and by gauging just the right second on his next caress up he managed to fit both hands under the hem of her shirt for the enticingly, entrancingly soft skin of her stomach. And while at first he'd been captivated by the closeness and the familiar, easy way she'd treated him, the quickening pulse of blood through his extremities and the almost-familiar sensations of a deep, near-feral hunger cemented that what he now wanted from her was nowhere near that simple or innocent.

"Gaara." Her hand pressed against his chest, its warmth permeating the thin linen of his shirt. "You shouldn't. _We _shouldn't."

"Shouldn't what?" Gaara tilted her chin up so he could see her face better, so he could try to tell if this was some kind of play-acting even as Shukaku started a shivery, triumphant chant: _I told you so._ But her expression held nothing of coyness or joking; just regret.

"We shouldn't keep . . . keep going like this. I mean that . . . that I didn't mean for this to happen."

The words stopped him cold. So all of it—the care, the touching, the joking and flirting . . . It was just her acting out of some misguided sense of pity. So it all meant _nothing._ His teeth clenched as his hand fell away from her face, as he forcibly reminded himself that no, it wasn't betrayal—just rejection. But that didn't make it taste any less bitter.

Green eyes scanned his face; then Sakura sighed and bowed her head. "He said you wouldn't understand."

But he understood perfectly: she'd play with the stray for a while, sure; but when it came time for her to head home for the night, he'd still be left out in the cold.

"I'm sorry," she murmured.

"Yeah. Me too." For making the mistake, for believing that things would go easily and that she would accept these advances in the same way she had before.

He still wanted her.

That was the part that stung the most: that even after having her turn him down, he still wanted her. Her smiling at his side, her worrying for his health, her soft and trusting, pressed against him at night. And he'd never been one to not get what he wanted.

"It's not like it sounds," she said.

"Then explain."

_Traitorous bitch. Kill her,_ Shukaku hissed.

_Control,_ he reminded himself.

She barely got a syllable out before someone who wasn't Kankurou started pounding frantically on the door. The realization of what that distraught a call at that odd an hour would mean washed over him as Sakura's expression jolted from sadness to trepidation.

The disheveled ninja burst in without having been given permission, having abandoned discretion for urgency. "Kazekage-sama, your sister's teams have been sighted." There was a half-second's hesitation, which gave Gaara enough time to read the implications of that pause. His heart sank even before the man filled in the rest of the news: "They're carrying bodies, and wounded."

He had to ask. "Are any of them not our shinobi?"

"Yes, Kazekage-sama."

Sakura's hands clenched spasmodically, and he was sure that if it wasn't for the countertop at her back and his hand against her side, her knees would've buckled.

It seemed they were still holding each other up, after all. Then she jerked free of him, making it all of two steps to the doorway before he spun and caught her by the arm. "Sakura—"

"They'll need me there," she said, her voice tight and frightened, her eyes huge and pleading. "I have to go."

"Not alone," he replied. "Not without me."

There was a second where he all but saw her considering, weighing distance against whatever safety he could offer. Then her arm twisted in his grasp, her hand clenching around his wrist in turn; and he knew that as they went to meet the finale of their worried waiting, she'd stand at his side.


	12. Visceral

I'd like to take a moment here to wave goodbye to the T rating. This got a little brutal.

* * *

When he'd fought Uzumaki Naruto, Gaara'd felt like he'd been sucked into a whirlpool. Everything'd been disorienting motion and emotion, swirling wildly around him and inexorably pulling him under.

This was much the same.

To his left, close to his side as if he was the only thing that could protect her, was the girl he wanted to protect, to care for, the girl he wanted . . . even if she didn't want him. Gaara's lips twisted with a silent snarl at the memory of her pushing him away. Even if that. He might want her, but he might hate her, too.

To his right, the messenger shinobi quickened his steps. "Just a little further, Kazekage-sama."

No. He had to put his hurt and confusion over the girl out of his mind. For all he knew, Naruto might be among the dead—if not somewhere worse. "How many bodies?" he snapped, angry that he'd neglected to get the most basic of information from the man.

"Two or three," the ninja replied distractedly.

So now the messenger couldn't even get things right? Night watches would be far too kind a punishment.

From another empty hallway came the absolute last person he wanted to see. Shun's presence jolted Gaara's thoughts of punishment to ones of murder. His mood didn't dampen as the man started speaking: "I'll need to know what you're planning on doing, Kazekage-sama."

"Whatever I have to," he growled in return.

His advisor fell into step beside them, refusing to back down from the argument. "I know that look. I won't have you doing anything rash, Gaara."

"Don't tell me what to do, old man." One thing he was sure of: his decisions of the next few hours would mean life or death, and his advisors' misgivings would **_not_** hold him back.

"Kazekage-sama, this is no time for you to be obstinate."

"These aren't people I can bargain away," he returned.

"Our people aren't people you can bargain away." The man's voice dropped from anger to desperation. "Kazekage-sama, don't tell me that you're doing this because of some person you hardly know."

Gaara's scowl deepened. It wasn't that he didn't really know Naruto—except for how their interaction was limited to barely more than their single fight. But there was something in their shared pasts, something in the other boy's ideals that—

"You don't understand," Sakura interjected. "It isn't something simple—"

Oh. So Shun was talking about the _other_ person he hardly knew. Her.

"He doesn't need encouragement from someone who, for all we know, worked their way into his life solely to achieve this end."

He only made it two more paces—then faltered, stopped, having slipped from hurt to distrust before he even realized it. Still beside him, Sakura shook her head in denial, meeting his eyes with mortified disbelief. "It's not like that!"

"Then why him?" Shun demanded. "Especially when his brother doesn't have the past, the reputation, the demon?"

Their messenger, unobtrusively shifting to their midst, mercifully kept any tales of what he'd burst in on earlier to himself.

Fully on the offensive, Shun took a step forward. "Why else if not because, as Kazekage, Gaara could very well take us all to war for the sake of your teammates?"

Had his advisors worried more that she'd steal him away. . . or use him in the same way he'd been used as a child; as a weapon, a means to an end? What would he have given up for the friendly, caring companionship Sasuke'd taken for granted? Everything?

Having seen where he'd come from, wouldn't she have understood that?

"Gaara—" she started.

"Then why?" He fought to keep his hands from clenching to fists, fought for control. "For everything, why?"

Her mouth moved, but no sound came out. Then, finally: "It's not something I can just—"

"_Why?"_

"Don't look at me like that," she whispered. Then, as her eyes widened in alarm: "Gaara—"

He had the briefest fraction of a second to recognize the force of someone else's killing intent, muted as it'd been by his own—then the explosive flurry of motion demanded only one response: defense.

The chakra surge spiked and faded, leaving him untouched inside a delicately curving half-cocoon of sand. And with him . . . her, warm, her eyes almost level with his and her arms in his hands' grasp from when she'd reached for him in an attempt at defense, and he'd grabbed her and turned his back to the commotion in order to ensure she'd be safe behind his shields.

He'd give her one last chance.

"Why?" he asked, his voice quiet.

Resignedly, stunningly, she smiled. "Because I _like_ you, you awful jerk."

And she'd tried to throw herself in harm's way to help him. And without thinking, the first person he'd reached for to protect was her.

Wanted her. Hated her. But with her tense and shaking against him, her face turned up to his with wonder and fear, he couldn't deny that one emotion eclipsed the other.

Then the shields were falling, and he turned to face the direction of their attacker. The strike itself had been almost soundless, though the destruction was widespread. A wind flail had scored and scoured the walls and floor, and shuriken and kunai were imbedded in anything he hadn't managed to shield in time—Shun included. The advisor was down and unconscious, his only signs of life being the movement of his chest and the blood pouring from the wound in his shoulder. It hadn't been a usual attack—but one that could conceivably still take out a large number of enemies at close range. Gaara's hands clenched against Sakura's arms as he put things together: the destructive power behind this sort of technique could easily maul an opponent beyond recognition. Yes, Sand had trained its own well.

And crouched between them all . . .

Gaara'd never expected to see Yuura again—but his former advisor was there anyway, back out of hiding. And once again, Gaara was making completely unacceptable mistakes. He hadn't thought to demand identification, hadn't recognized the chakra signature, hadn't shielded Shun in time . . . And no, they hadn't seen anyone suspicious enter or leave Sand, but they'd accepted the dead as dead, not thinking that one of them might conceal himself in their midst. And from there, all Yuura'd had to do was bring Shun into things and wait until Gaara was angered and distracted enough—then strike.

"Did you really think it'd be that easy? That you could just sweep in and save the day?" Yuura cocked his head to the side, the twist of his facial expression leaving no doubt as to his lack of sanity. "You, of _all_ people—why are you concerned with their lives?" The ninja forced a sickly smile; his teeth a little too bared, his eyes a little too frantic. "It's almost funny."

"Funny like the nins you killed? Like the ones you sent for me to kill?"

"Would've been funnier listening to you scream while your leash-holders finished your demon's extraction," Yuura sneered. "But that didn't work out very well now, did it?"

"But _why?"_ Sakura demanded, releasing Gaara's sleeves in order to step forward and directly confront their attacker. "Why turn on everyone, betray everyone like this?" The tone of her voice drew Gaara's attention; yes, she _was_ talking about more than Yuura's defection.

"Because I didn't have any choice! You don't _understand,"_ Yuura hissed, his shaking hands half-clenched in front of his own face. "The technique's bond . . . When he killed Sasori-sama, I felt it. I felt _every second_ of it." His laugh sounded more like a hitching gasp for breath. "Now all I have is my final mission: to ensure the capture of one of you—ensure it at all costs."

Sand wrapped around the man as quickly as it took for Gaara to raise his arm. "This is your 'all costs,'" he snarled, "and you're ensured nothing."

Held fast in the Desert Coffin, Yuura suddenly stilled, his eyes wide and nearly lucid. "Haven't I?"

And he started screaming.

"Someone, help! The Kazekage's gone crazy again, he's gonna—_he's gonna kill me, someone,** someone please—!**_**"**

Sand smothered the man's shouts, but Gaara still knew he'd been trapped. And with how the flail's damage outwardly mimicked the marks his sand could leave, with Yuura in a Desert Coffin and with Shun down, bleeding, dying . . . If anyone saw that, _anyone,_ he'd be locked away and the extraction would be started faster than he could ever hope to explain—if his shinobi didn't immediately attack him on sight.

_Did you see? Did you hear the trap click shut? _Shukaku's howls weren't of victory, but of horrified rage. _You idiot pup, now we'll both suffer!_

Sakura drew his attention away from the tanuki as she wrenched loose from him. Desperately, he grabbed her arm to stop her as her fist raised—that wouldn't be better, that'd just be the already-suspect Leaf interloper covering up for him. "You _can't,"_ he snapped.

"Otherwise they'll blame you!" she cried. "Tell them it was me, that it was all my fault—I don't care!"

"No!" The denial was in response to the futility of her demand as much as a refusal of his own nature. With everything egging him on, from his own bloodlust to Shukaku's shrieks, to the blood from Shun's wound wetting the sand and stone under him . . . He shook his head this time, and the word came out no less desperate. _"No."_

From farther down the hall came the sound of panicking shouts, the faintest impact of running feet against sandy stone. There was no way he'd ever get out of this.

Some still-feral part of him clenched in anticipation: if there was no getting out of this, there'd be nothing to lose by killing the man in front of him and fighting his way through whatever would come to stand in his way. The shinobi of Hidden Sand hadn't been able to control him as a child—thinking they could do so now was delusion.

She must've seen the change in his demeanor, felt his impulse through their contact. "Gaara, _don't."_

Shuddering, he fought to will the craving away. He couldn't. Not unless he wanted to throw away everything he'd spent years working for. Not even if it killed him.

But he didn't get the chance.

The muffled wheezing halted abruptly, and Gaara looked up to find Shun behind Yuura, his right sleeve soaked in blood and his kunai buried to the hilt in the soft spot between Yuura's collarbone and shoulder. "If I had the choice," Shun hissed, "this would be the least of what you'd suffer." And without another word he slammed the butt of the kunai with the heel of his hand, embedding the entire weapon in the other man's chest.

Yuura slumped from his grip bonelessly. Gaara recognized the mortal wound and pulled his sand away from the body, but Shun stubbornly stayed on his own feet, swaying as the other's dying shudders stilled. "Is that what you wanted?"

As Gaara struggled to find a suitable reply, Shun's knees gave out. But though he had no vocal response, the redhead still used his sand to catch the man before he hit the floor beside Yuura. And then Sakura had slipped free of him and darted unfalteringly to the older man, her hands already forming seals, and he had a second to be proud of her ability to work past emotion. Then the sounds of the approaching shinobi recaptured his attention, and he moved in to play the concerned Kazekage before they could come into view.

"He told me that you were taking us to war and ran off before I could even think to do anything," Shun scowled. "He knew exactly what button to push to bring me out swinging."

The blood on Shun's sleeve, on the ground, and on Sakura's hands as she deftly healed the older man's major wound kept Shukaku alert enough that Gaara had to look away. "I know."

"And I know what you're thinking: that you want to send troops out for search and rescue. I also know how you dive into things headfirst." Shun's jaw clenched as Sakura tightened a makeshift bandage. "All I'm asking is for you to choose your direction carefully."

But his direction was already set. "I can't promise anything," he said. And by that time, the first shinobi had blurred into view, skidded to a halt, and started to approach at a much more cautious pace.

"I'll explain to them," Shun said.

"On your way to the hospital," Sakura rebutted. "You've lost a lot of blood."

Gaara blinked at her tone, her expression. If the look on her face was any indication, he'd been wrong here, too: it was still emotion driving her, rather than duty. She actually_ was_ concerned for that cranky old pain in his ass. And that meant . . . that she'd managed to put Shun's faults aside no matter the accusations he'd leveled at her, that she was willing to let his actions make up for his shortcomings. Just like how she'd accepted his own actions and shortcomings.

She'd said she _liked_ him. Well, what the hell was that supposed to mean?

He didn't understand her in the least bit.

"Everything's all right," Shun called to the approaching nins. Then, as Gaara stood: "Remember your duty, Gaara. This entire village's well-being is on your shoulders."

"I know," he replied. But if Naruto was among the dead . . .

Damn it.

"Let's get going," he told Sakura, and tried not to wonder if there was anything hidden in how easily she accepted his hand up.

**ooo**

Yuura'd lied, of course. There was only one body awaiting their arrival, draped respectfully in dark cloth. Gaara took in the shape and size and knew: Chiyo. The Leaf team who'd brought her home seemed worse for the wear. Lee flashed an unsure grin as a Sand medic examined the leg Gaara'd once crushed, the Hyuuga and the girl teammate both had various gashes, and their instructor—Gai—hobbled a little as he moved to the three bundles of black and red fabric that composed the rest of the team's burden.

"We felt the chakra blast a few days ago and homed in on it—we thought someone had caught up to either you or Naruto. Neither of you were there . . . but this one was, waiting for us."

The first head stared back with cloudy eyes, its black-and-white skin stark and unnatural.

"He came up out of the dirt, out of the trees themselves to attack us," Gai continued. "I've never seen anything like it. If it wasn't for Neji . . ."

"The other attacked us on the way there," the Hyuuga interrupted, and stepped over to tweak the second bundle's fabric aside. "Hoshigaki Kisame."

And . . . Gaara opened the last bundle himself. Putting an identity to the battered features took a second. "Sasori of the Red Sands."

That made three of the Akatsuki. Great. So he hadn't even managed to kill one of them and the team in front of him had shown up at the gates of his village with a third of the group's number in bounty heads.

"We found him buried beside Chiyo," Neji said. "with cloths over each of their faces. There's only one person who would've done that for them both."

So Naruto was definitely still alive. Gaara nodded, almost to himself.

"But we also found this."

Approaching from his left, Lee held out a crumpled bandage. Sakura took it before turning to Gaara to confirm his suspicious: "Poison."

There was only one thing that could be done. He glanced over the ninjas there, who stared back with travel-worn faces. For the venture necessary . . . "You need more shinobi."

"You'll need the council's approval," Kankurou grumbled, "for the number of shinobi they'll need."

"Get them. I'll be at the conference room shortly."

Still close beside him, Sakura stiffened. But she'd seen his advisors accuse him of murder, of being an irrational rabid animal, of trying to start a war . . . She had absolutely no reason to think that they wouldn't try to stop him on this. But even though he'd experienced years of them doing the same, even though he knew what objections would come . . . to be this close . . .

_No,_ he thought, as he turned to her and saw his own desperation reflected in her eyes. Neither of them could afford to be afraid. "Listen."

"But they—"

He knew he shouldn't reach for her, shouldn't touch her in front of them all, but the way the curve of her cheekbones fit against the palms of his hands kept her attention focused solely on him. He sank his elbows to his sides as her hands closed around his wrists, pulling her in until the color of her eyes was almost all he could see. "_Listen to me._ I won't let anything happen, I won't let it go wrong."

"Do you promise?" she asked softly, with a faint half-smile that did nothing to mask her fear, and he almost kissed her.

The promises weren't his to make, so he made do with reassurances. "Don't worry about them, just get ready. I'll take care of it."

"I'll get the word out," Kankurou said, and was gone.

Sakura glanced after his brother, then looked back to him and nodded. "I need to get things, too—supplies, plants for antidotes."

He hesitated, hated himself for hesitating. Time was of the essence—but there still might be sleeper agents in Sand. And though he hated having to acknowledge it, he feared sending her off alone.

"I'll go with her," Lee said, stepping up beside them.

She squeezed his wrists, her fingers warm and roughened against his skin as her voice dropped to a whisper. "Gaara, it's ok. Lee'll protect me."

"With my life," Lee added, and his fist thumped against his chest for emphasis.

Gaara took precious seconds to examine the shinobi who'd once been his adversary; fixing the weary and jutsu-less ninja with a stare that engendered no misinterpretation. "I'll hold you to that."

**ooo**

By the time he made it to the administrative building, the halls were filling with tense shinobi; grouping briefly in one place, breaking to make contact with colleagues.

"Gone crazy again," he heard one hiss.

"_War,"_ whispered another.

One skidded to a stop as he passed; then turned abruptly to keep pace beside him. "Kazekage-sama—"

"You'll be briefed later. As for now, be ready," he told them.

"For?"

"Anything."

The ninja nodded and disappeared, leaving Gaara to his thoughts. His arrangement with his advisors had set him up as the decision-maker when things required immediate, violent action. But for this . . . they'd want explanations as to why he felt so rushed, as to why he'd want to catapult Sand's shinobi out into the wilderness to search for a pair of foreign shinobi. And with anything else, he'd understand—but there was much more at stake here than a few moments of Sand's security. They were up against the Akatsuki, a group that thought nothing of destroying a village to capture one person; a group with the time and patience to instate a plan that would take _years _to come to fruition. There was no possible way that wasn't a group which required immediate destruction.

He'd been too passive. He couldn't afford to be passive.

And if his advisors still wouldn't concede . . . He couldn't have their rules choking him, not in a life-or-death moment. No Kazekage in their right mind would allow it. And their stalling, not allowing him the right to take care of this problem as he saw fit . . . It could only be hostile intent. No, they didn't have to _like_ him . . . but if their opinions and misgivings got in his way, then he'd have to do something about them.

Baki would go first. He owed the man that much. Takumi usually sat closest to the doorway and would go next. The rest by then would be trapped between him and a wall of sand, and wouldn't survive for very long after.

It wouldn't be murder if it was treason. It'd be cleaning. And if they decided to stand fast and block him on this, it would be something he'd have to do. And if his father could convince a village that it was perfectly all right to sacrifice a kunoichi in order to seal a demon into her baby, then he could _definitely_ convince them that a handful of old men were working against Sand's best interests.

Then his brother and sister were at his sides, their expressions so carefully mild that he knew they were there to thwart him.

"You don't have to be there," he told them, looking at neither in particular.

"Unlike the people back there," Kankurou replied, "we know _exactly_ what it means when _you_ say that you'll 'take care of things.'"

"It took you longer than I thought it would," Temari added.

"I'm going to do what I have to," he said quietly. "Nothing more."

"And after you're done," Kankurou said, "if _we_ have to, we'll be there to tell everyone else that it was justified."

He focused on the ground ahead of his feet, overwhelmed by his siblings' willingness to stand by him. "Thank you."

"But for the sake of the trouble we'd go through," Temari said, smiling to take the edge off the words, "try to talk sense into them first."

Put that way, concessions didn't seem to be to terribly hard. "I can do that," he nodded, and reached for the conference room's doors. His advisors milled around immediately inside of the room, refusing to sit and appearing even more agitated than the shinobi in the hallway.

"Kazekage-sama, what's going on?"

"The remaining members of Leaf's rescue party need our help," he replied, as calmly as possible. "The least I can do is offer Sand's manpower in aid."

"How much manpower?" Baki asked.

"However much I need. Missions can go on hold for the day."

It seemed that the group's veneer of civility had been stripped away by their collective tension. An older advisor spoke from near the back of the group: "Kazekage-sama, you know as well as we do that these missions are what keep Sand financially afloat. Some of these people have been waiting for days—we can't afford to blow them off now, or to just throw our ranking shinobi into the wilderness on some wild manhunt."

"I'm being responsible for Leaf's nins in the same way they were for me. How is this anything but holding up our end of the treaty?"

"They tossed two mixed-rank teams in our direction for you, and you're talking about bringing Sand itself to a halt for just _two_ of their nins?" This came from Takumi, who'd stationed himself in the center of the group.

Gaara made a point of meeting the man's eyes and glaring. "They 'tossed' them because _you_ didn't send _anyone."_

"You can't blame that on us," Takumi snapped. "We couldn't control what happened then, you know this. But we can control things here. And when we turn around to find you off playing house with some—"

"What I do in my spare time is my own business," Gaara snarled. "That has no relevance whatsoever."

"It becomes our business when the person we've allowed to _lead_ this village ends up letting some girl lead _him_ around by his cock!"

Kankurou's temper exploded before his could. "You presumptuous son of a—"

"_Kankurou,"_ Gaara cautioned; then found himself still having to reach out with hands and sand to physically stop his brother from meeting the man head-on. "Stop it." He couldn't have the puppeteer trying to preserve some sense of honor that he, having killed more of Sand's shinobi than he could count, could care less about. But if this man's postulation stopped him from getting the shinobi he needed out to search for Naruto, all while trying to chain him even more firmly to the council's will . . . He met the older man's eyes, his voice both a cold threat and a promise of violence. "What makes you think that I would ever, _ever_ stand to let **_anyone_** lead me wherever they wanted?"

It wasn't like hiding in a greater number would save the elder, not if Gaara chose to follow through with his initial plan. And as Takumi suddenly paled to an unhealthy hue, Gaara knew that he'd understood the foolishness of blindly throwing insults as well.

As if realizing how badly things were going—or that an execution was about to occur right in front of him—Baki stepped forward in an attempt to moderate the argument. "Kazekage-sama, Takumi-san, _please._ We're not here for threats and accusations." After a few seconds had passed and the tension had subsided slightly, he stepped between them to speak again. "The majority of the teams have come back. The only ones missing now are a jounin and a genin. We can't compromise Sand's safety by sending the majority of our forces on a manhunt. It'd be _begging_ for an insurrection." His hands raised in a repentant gesture. "Besides: for all we know, they're on their way back to Leaf and just haven't reported yet."

And for all Gaara knew, their bodies could turn up weeks after the fact; half-desiccated and half-buried in the desert sand, the same way his father's had.

"This isn't a chance I can take," he told them.

"You need to explain better, then," another replied. "Otherwise we just see you rushing to save the teammates of that girl—who happens to have spent most of her waking hours and _every night"_—the emphasis let Gaara know _exactly_ what they thought had been happening—"with you."

"'That girl' saved both of my brothers' lives, and her _teammate_ that you could care less about has given me my brother—_your_ Kazekage—back twice now. I won't see them blown off as just inconveniences and casualties," Temari snarled.

"That teammate," Gaara interrupted, "is the Kyuubi's vessel."

Arguments stilled. Across the room, someone sucked air through their teeth with a soft hiss. They hadn't known. And he knew that bringing this into things counted less as "upping the ante" and more as "cutting the legs out from under."

He closed his eyes, finding the blackness behind his eyelids a better place to organize his thoughts; a place where he could tell himself there was nothing wrong with using the blond's secret as leverage. "It might not mean the same thing as if they'd finished Shukaku's extraction with me. Like you said, he's just a genin. Politically, I mean more." He looked up. "But we don't know what the Akatsuki wants, or why they're searching for jinchuuriki. There's a chance we never will. But the lengths they're willing to go to means that we can't just close our eyes and hope it goes away.

"Advisor Yuura is dead. He was a sleeper agent, and just a short while ago gave his life trying to stall me from getting teams out there. This means we don't have time to spare. Chiyo is also dead. It was an act of foolishness and bravado that got her killed—pretending that she was able to handle the wrong situation alone, pretending she was stronger than she knew herself to be while trying to _save face._ Now Sand's reputation is all but destroyed, and our allies and foes alike see us as incompetent. We have a chance to fix that." Gaara looked around at the men facing him, the men who had seen him grow from a spoiled child to a ravening monster, to the quiet, serious young man who'd one day stood up and declared that he wanted to be their leader. "Mistakes have been made. Mine aren't the least among them. But the chance to prove ourselves again has fallen into our laps, and we should take it."

Seconds ticked by, and he found himself wondering what would take less time—if he crushed them all, or waited for their responses. "Are we agreed?"

Nods, murmurs of assent.

"Good. Missions can go on hold then, for at least a short while. First I'll need six teams, each doing a sweep along the main routes in. Ones with summons that can relay messages back here as quickly as possible." He gestured to a man at random. "Get them. _Now._ Also, any approval we'll need to send shinobi into the bordering countries. The rest of you . . . get ready. There's no way to tell what could face us next."

Kankurou thoughtfully waited until they were out of the room and out of earshot before commenting. "You know who you sounded like in there, don't you?"

Gaara clenched his teeth, resisting the urge to glance over his shoulder to where the statue of his father stared sightlessly down at his back. He nodded once, without looking at his brother; then continued down the hallway to where the necessary shinobi were beginning to assemble.

It didn't look like the Leaf team had any intention of sitting this search out. Gaara wasn't going to argue with them over it, anyway—if anything, he'd instruct Sand's teams to work around them as much as possible. He had more important things to see to than the number of soldier pills they had on hand.

"Three teams are going with you. They've been called and should be here shortly, along with the scouts." A quick head count showed that two of Leaf's own were still missing from the search party. "I'll get the others." And he didn't want the group in front of him following. His hands fluidly formed the necessary seals, and he was gone without a trace before they could ask where he was going.

But he knew exactly where he was going. There was one thing he'd wanted in his life that he hadn't simply reached out and taken . . . and he knew exactly where to find her.

**ooo**

The faint light of the sun breaking over the horizon illuminated his path and brought into relief the shadow of what could only be Hidden Sand. The sight of his goal gave Naruto hope, allowing him to push for what extra speed his waning strength would allow.

"Almost there," he said to Kakashi, though the jounin had been unresponsive for more than a day.

In the years he'd trained with Jiraiya, had he ever run this hard? Had he ever mimed battles and hunts with this sort of deadly seriousness for this long a period of time? He'd dispelled some of his clones for what energy they would give him—and had more picked off by his still-unseen hunter—but still found that it took effort to stay alert, to accomplish more than his mechanical, repetitive forward motion.

How long had it been since he'd been able to relax for any length of time? A week? More?

He didn't know.

But it wasn't the current situation he should dwell on, Jiraiya'd taught him. So with Sand that close, with salvation imminent, he could put some of the worry aside.

"Ow!" The sharp pain broke his stride, and Naruto hopped a couple steps on one foot, trying to slow his momentum rather than stumble and drop Kakashi. Stabilizing, he loosed a string of choice explicatives, then carefully lay Kakashi down and plopped onto the ground in order to examine the object that had jabbed him through his sandal. What he saw made his heart skip a beat and froze him in place.

A caltrop.

He swallowed hard, pulling the pointed object free. Maybe this wasn't anything. Maybe someone from the nearby ninja village had dropped one while training, it had been lost in the sand, and he'd just been unlucky enough to step on it. It wasn't at all that someone had left it, knowing that his clones would dissipate the second they took damage. It wasn't that someone was waiting for him.

But when he turned to glance at Kakashi, the jounin was gone.

Naruto scrambled to his feet frantically, spun around. There was Kakashi—held up by the throat, easily supported by one hand of the emotionless figure beside him.

Panic. Disbelief. To struggle that long, to get close enough to see the shadow of Sand's walls rising up in the distance, to give that much, and have it all snatched away at the last moment . . .

"Let's even the playing field," Itachi said mildly—and as negligently as he might peel an orange, slit Kakashi's stomach open from one side to the other.

**ooo**

The greenhouse was still night-dark, though the air inside pressed close against his skin, the dampness heavy enough that he imagined he could feel it when he rubbed his fingertips together. Sensing his approach, Lee looked up first from the packet of leaves he'd just finished folding. Gaara nodded in acknowledgement, then gestured towards the exit. "They're waiting."

He waited until the other was out of the room, listening to be sure Lee didn't stay nearby. This was _his_ moment with her, watching her in her element, and he didn't want it spoiled by the other's attention.

The stark worry on Sakura's face prompted him to speak first. "The teams are ready whenever you are."

Her shoulders slumped with a relieved sigh even before she asked. "Everything went ok?"

"Well enough."

She smiled warmly, approvingly. "You were able to talk sense to them?"

"Yeah," he nodded. He wouldn't tell her what he'd planned to do if they hadn't listened. She didn't need to know.

"This one's yours," she responded, handing him another packet. "Your medicine, for this morning. With everything . . ." Her brisk movements from one table to another helped cover her blush. "I didn't have the time to think about it."

Neither did he. Gaara stepped into her path of travel, forcing her to move around him. His reasoning was silly—making her recognize his existence even as an obstacle while bringing her close enough to touch—but at that moment, any reason was enough.

"Aren't you going to get a cup?" She sighed and took the packet back, mixing it with her own water bottle and passing it back to him, smiling exasperatedly as he drank. "Every time I turn around . . ."

Every time she turned around, he was there.

She brushed past him on her next trip to the backpack, pausing for long enough to meet his eyes. "I can send you things—your medics, I mean—when I get back to Leaf. Seeds for things you don't have. The messenger birds can carry them well enough and you can have more access to more things that way, and maybe you can save a few more lives and—"

He stopped listening. When she got back, she'd said. Which meant she'd leave soon. He'd known she'd be going, of course—but faced with the imminence of it all, he found the prospect to be something . . . something . . . It meant no more smiles and no more jokes and no more of her in his kitchen in the mornings, equally ready to battle him or fuss over him. And the sureness of this future absence . . . It _hurt._

She caught his hand with both of hers as it rose to his chest, stopping him from reaching for the hurt like he had as a child. "Gaara . . ." And then she was pressed against him, her arms wrapped tightly around his body as her cheek pressed against his own. "Thank you. Thank you _so much,_ for _everything."_

This was what he'd wanted, he told himself, as he wrapped his arms around her in turn. This was supposed to be his triumphant moment, where he could revel in his victory over his advisors as well as in her acceptance . . . and she was going to leave him.

He held on until he felt her stiffen against him as the moment lengthened into awkwardness, then let go. Sakura backed away uncertainly, then wrenched her attention away from him and back to the packets and small bottles she shoved into her hip pouch. And he recognized the motion for the start of what it was: backing away, making distance, making it not so hard to finally cut ties.

"I haven't seen a cherry tree in here." Her fingers nimbly fastened buckles on her pack as she spoke, seemingly to hear the sound of her own voice. "I'll send you some if you don't, saplings or something. Something for you to remember me by."

Something to remember her by, once she was gone. Once she'd left him. His hands clenched.

"Though . . ." Sakura came to a halt, one hand resting on her pack as she sadly scanned the foliage around them. "I'm not sure one would bloom in here, without a real change of seasons." She turned back to him, features brightening. "But then again, it might get confused and bloom all the time. Wouldn't _that_ be something?"

It'd be _something,_ yeah. It'd be _his._ A confused, out-of-place tree, there with him, with blossoms the color of her hair and leaves the color of her eyes, and it would be . . .

She would be . . .

He didn't think it over; just let impulse pull him, darting forward in the time it took her to blink so that her eyes opened just as his lips met hers.

"I'm sorry," he murmured the second there was space between them to speak. And again, as he reached for her with both hands: "I'm sorry." Because he hadn't intended to make things worse, complicate them more—

Wide-eyed and silent, she stared at him as if he'd slapped her.

"I'm _sorry,"_ he insisted, even as he grasped her upper arms and pulled her back to him—because he wasn't sure what he'd do if she tried to turn away from him, and because he couldn't leave things at just that; at a brush of lip on lip so faint that it may as well have never happened. Sakura's hands clenched against his chest, her body stiff and unresponsive against his. And in part, he understood: she hadn't really even known what'd hit her.

But he could fix things. He could keep here there against him until she listened, until she thought of him in the same way he thought of her. He could . . . he could . . . Reality slowly seeped in, and he shook his head. He could force his attentions on her, even though she was obviously less than willing. He could hurt her, frighten her, make her that much more unlikely to want to visit him or talk to him or ever deal with him again. He couldn't do that.

He stopped; then leaned in only as far as it took to rest his forehead against hers. "I'm sorry." He wouldn't assault the person he cared about. Not even if she wouldn't have him any other way. But hopefully, _hopefully,_ she'd let him hold her until he stopped feeling so ashamed.

Moving as slowly as one waking from a deep sleep, she sighed against him, whispering his name with the breath. "Gaara . . . it's okay."

He opened his eyes to find her watching him, smiling a tiny, tremulous smile. "It's okay," she repeated softly, and didn't flinch as the acceptance sank in; her hands uncurling against his chest as he let his arms finish wrapping around her.

And . . . there. He closed his eyes again at the acceptance. It was something, at least: the warmth of her, close and unafraid; her hands gentle against his shoulders; her breath against his face . . . her lips closing sweetly against his.

He froze. Then, as she didn't immediately pull away, he allowed himself to relax the tiniest bit; to draw a slow breath, savoring the taste of her trust even though his heart pounded so wildly he was almost certain she'd be able to tell. Finally she drew back, her smile a mimicry of boldness even as another blush colored her cheeks. "I _said_ it was okay. But—"

He cut her off, covering her mouth with his own before she could talk herself into hesitation. He didn't want her misgivings, he wanted this—her lips soft and wet and accepting against his, meeting him with an echo of his urgency. He kissed her for every moment of worry, every bit of fear, every instance she'd stood up for him and every time she'd said the Uchiha's name. And having her like this—unrestrained, uninhibited, and best of all, _willing_ . . .

Somehow, a thought filtered past the cavalcade of feelings: so _this_ was what the big deal was about.

He could've spent hours there, bathing in her affections, washing away his worries with the simplicity of how they fit together. But duty still called to him, even more demandingly than his response to the press of her body against his.

"You have to get going," he murmured against her mouth. One arm tightened around her as he rubbed his cheek against the softness of hers, running his free hand through her hair and trying not to imagine what could go wrong.

If she got hurt out there . . .

He drowned the thought out by finding her lips again, coaxing her mouth open and kissing her until her hands fisted in his clothing and she voiced her approval with a throaty sound that bordered on desperation.

"I know," she finally said, and gently pulled back. "Gaara . . ." She gave a long, shuddery breath; but there was still no fear in her eyes, no flinching or looking away or stepping back when he let go of her to wonderingly cup her face in his hands. "We really, really have to talk."

"Later," he told her, his fingertips careful against her hair before tracing down her arms. "We will later."

**ooo**

"You're too rash."

Roaring, Naruto dove at the missing-nin a second time. Itachi dodged this attack just as fluidly. "Too hasty."

Naruto lunged with Rasengan, only to have Itachi disappear in a flurry of black and red fabric. This time the voice came from behind him. "Sasori dead . . . Deidara dead . . . My partner, dead . . ."

The blond spun to find Itachi facing him, as casual as though the dead meant nothing and as if he had all the time in the world. "They were too hasty, as well. But with my partner dead and my plans falling to shards in front of me, this is how I react. This is how we're different."

Kakashi'd said that killing would take some of your humanity. Yeah, Naruto could believe that.

He could also believe that this show of patience was an attempt to get him to look up.

Kakashi'd said they couldn't look Itachi in the eye. Well, he could do that. Naruto scowled, focused on the Uchiha's feet, and told himself that there was no possible way he'd get taken down by a nutcase with purple toenails. Now . . . weight to the left, the angle of his toes in the sand meant he'd go right . . . A shift to the balls of his feet for quick movement and—

He felt the kunai's impact against his shoulder before any pain, and stared stupidly at the wound before the blood wetting his shirt hammered in that no, he wasn't just having a waking nightmare.

"If you're only watching my feet," Itachi explained, "then you don't see what my hands are doing." He took a step forward. "Don't think I missed. I didn't make it a killing strike because we'd prefer you alive." Then, as Naruto wrenched the weapon from its resting place in his flesh: "I'd prefer that you don't bleed out, as well. Don't make it any harder than it has to be."

The blond's shoulder burned as his wound began to knit itself together. No, he wouldn't bleed out or let Kakashi die—and no, he would _not_ fall here. The sound that tore itself from his throat no longer resembled one of human rage, but he didn't care. Exhausted, battered, and losing hope, he mentally reached for the only possible venue that could get him out of this alive: _You stupid fucking fox!_

**ooo**

The concussion of inhuman chakra washed over everyone there, and drove the still-arriving ninja to sprint to join the group. Already amongst those waiting, Gaara turned towards the desert, staring out in search of combatants as Kankurou swore softly from beside him.

"What was that?" someone asked.

"It's Naruto," Sakura answered, and took a step in the direction of the shockwave's epicenter. "He's got to be close."

Was that a faraway glimmer of faint morning sunlight on metal? He couldn't tell.

"I'm going," Gaara said, before he could even give himself the time to think it through.

From behind the group, Baki attempted to reason with him. "Gaara, the _village._ We don't know if there's more sleeper agents, or if the Akatsuki are nearby—"

"I'm not going far," he answered distractedly. He couldn't actually _see_ the battle . . . but if he tried, he could feel the location.

Two sets of feet. One person down. Blood on the sand, making Shukaku stir and hiss thirstily.

Damn it, _blood on the sand._

"Your responsibility as Kazekage—"

"It's practically in Sand's shadow, which makes it my responsibility anyway." Even though he knew he shouldn't. Going into battle while not at full capacity had been what'd gotten Chiyo killed—but Chiyo's death could also be attributed to her having gone into battle with insufficient backup. And he didn't trust that everyone would come back from this venture without his being there to protect them.

He shouldn't. He should trust the shinobi that'd assembled to take care of things—no matter that he still couldn't fully trust them. No matter that none of them really understood his connection to the person possibly poisoned and bleeding and getting killed out there. Because if they tried and failed . . .

He had no food, no time . . . and no other choice.

Baki scowled and folded his arms in front of himself. "And exactly what are the rest of us supposed to do while you play hero?"

Gaara smiled. "Watch me."


	13. Convolution

No one's caught the first main theme yet—I think I'm surprised.

* * *

The Kyuubi's rage overshadowed his own as he dipped under Itachi's knife hand, driving a fist towards the other man's stomach. Itachi blurred out of the way at the last second—but the fox's heightened senses tipped Naruto off, and he kicked backwards blindly, sharply. His heel caught Itachi in the solar plexus, slamming the air out of his lungs—but without missing a beat the Uchiha slashed at Naruto's leg, tearing fabric and skin but miraculously missing tendons.

Naruto twisted, roared, and attacked again.

But through the rush and rage of battle, past the burn of his wounds and overtaxed muscles, Naruto felt the faint human thread of desperation. Even this way, even with how he mentally grappled with the Kyuubi to bolster his failing strength and with how he gave everything he had, he knew it was futile. He was out of energy, out of time, almost completely out of ideas, and had to cripple or kill his opponent to win—Itachi only had to make eye contact.

On some level he realized that fighting for his life because he was a jinchuuriki would make him like Gaara. But when it counted, Gaara'd failed to save himself. Naruto's failure to save himself would be Kakashi's death sentence.

He must've looked in the jounin's direction, because Itachi suddenly changed his direction of attack—this time loosing two kunai at the fallen man. Naruto was forced to throw his two last kunai to knock Itachi's off-target and thus missed when the missing-nin moved again. A flash of red darted across the blond's field of vision, his rage skipping a single, terrified beat before he recognized the splash of color as a cloud on Itachi's cloak—then the man dipped low to spin and sweep his legs out from under him. Naruto hit the ground hard and, certain he'd become a human pincushion at any second, threw a fistful of sand at Itachi's face in a desperate effort to make distance. The attack worked: the Uchiha backed up a step, a hand half-raised to protect his eyes, and Naruto knew that the man was just as susceptible to a scratched cornea as anyone else.

As if to cover his second of retreat, Itachi spoke. "Even if you win here, you're going to die. Why do you keep fighting it?"

Naruto got his feet under himself and crouched, squinting into the morning sunlight. Did the missing-nin's speech mean that he was trying to dishearten him, or that he was also exhausted from the days of pursuit?

"You wouldn't see what we're doing as mercy, would you? You're set to self-destruct, both of you are—the sealings took something vital from you. Your emotions will break your seal, and your saving the other one has condemned him to a life of sleeplessness. And once your human natures both show through and your willpower wears down to nothing, you'll put everyone around you in danger. The things we've seen from some of the others—"

Were Itachi's hands shaking with adrenaline, or weariness?

Despite the situation's seriousness, Naruto grinned. "You talk too much."

He saw a flash of silver as the other struck and took the kunai through his palm rather than his chest, gripping Itachi's knife hand with what strength his sliced muscles and tendons could manage. It was a wound he could accept—because it allowed him to finally get close enough to use his best weapon.

Rasengan burst to life in Naruto's free hand, and he swung it at the traitor's head with all his strength. Unable to get completely clear, Itachi settled for just getting out of the way—and instead of jerking back or down, he ducked inside the half-circle created by his adversary's attack. This brought him suddenly, immediately close, and Naruto registered the red of the other's eyes for a fraction of a second before he snapped his own shut in panic.

But it was too late. From behind his eyelids, his mental vision showed the Uchiha standing unflappably straight—then that was even gone, leaving him with only the whisper: "Then here is your future."

The Kyuubi's chakra flared wildly as the fox's sentiments echoed his own; that this was bad and bad and bad and he had to find a way to fight it before the jutsu's claws sank all the way in—then the thought dissipated in a rush, leaving him with the warmth of sunlight on his face.

It wasn't agony that took him. It was far worse.

Elation seared him, buoyed him; his heart pounded jubilantly in his chest. Joy so poignant it felt like madness flooded his senses as everyone he'd ever known or cared for turned smiling, approving faces towards him . . .

And smiling, laughing, he killed them all.

One by one he watched their faces as they fell: Sakura's eyes wide with disbelief; Sasuke's betrayed horror. Iruka clutched at his sleeves and swore that he never should've been allowed to live. Orochimaru laughed with his last breath and called him a monster. But drunk on his own strength and insanity, he continued to tear through them, even as he felt his body twist to another shape and understood that the sounds coming from his mouth were no longer human.

In this he was both the murderer and the bystander: so through his panicked repugnance he still watched himself cut down old friends and foes alike, watched himself sink his teeth into their flesh even as the taste of blood made him gag, watched himself do worse. His horror compounded upon itself as he felt himself revel in the destruction, as he found himself incapable of stopping it though the deaths of his friends brought him screaming in elation, screaming in terror, fighting against whatever it was that made it continue as he shredded the pitiful defenses of those fighting against him. Then even the dizzying, mad ecstasy was gone, leaving him with only the taste of blood and the sight and silence of the dead, and his own screaming, screaming—

—Screaming, and he opened his eyes to find Gaara beside him, the redhead's hand on his shoulder and his eyes fixed on the blur in front of them where sand swirled and spun fast enough that it ripped sound from the air itself. Then there were others around them; and over there, Sakura, kneeling at Kakashi's side.

"Gaara!" she shouted, and the Sand-nin nodded sharply at the sound of her voice. For a second Naruto didn't realize what the red mist was that lifted from Kakashi's body—then, as it joined the howling storm in front of them, he understood. Sakura couldn't just heal that up into Kakashi's . . .

He hunched forward suddenly, overcome by nausea, retching onto the dry sand.

Gaara's knees hit the ground beside him, and another glance showed that the Sand-nin was white-lipped and shaking. But though Gaara's forehead furrowed in pained concentration, his hands still formed another set of seals before slamming into the sand.

"Cut off his sight, and his abilities to attack and defend are gone," Gaara muttered. "Cut off his escape, and he has no way to evade. Cut off his air . . ." Naruto knew what was going on in the storm in front of him then, and wondered if Gaara would blast the skin off of Itachi before ending things with a desert coffin.

He wondered what it made him that he couldn't bring himself to feel pity.

Gaara's eyes opened wearily, and the screaming lessened to a whisper as the sand in the air slowed its frenetic pace. Then the grains fell, and Gaara lurched to his feet, strode forward, and bodily hauled the Uchiha out of a shallow sand grave by the back of his collar. No, he hadn't taken all of Itachi's skin off. Just some of it. The sight still turned Naruto's stomach, and he looked away—but not before he saw Gaara dip down to the backs of Itachi's knees, a kunai in hand.

But no one would hamstring a corpse . . . So Itachi wasn't dead. He just wouldn't be running anywhere anymore. Naruto couldn't tell if this heartened him or disturbed him. Or if he should be worried for Gaara, who looked entirely too haggard and who'd used a kunai rather than sand to cripple their enemy.

The redhead gestured to some of the nearby shinobi, then pointed to the body at his feet. "You know where to take him. Get him there fast and take all precautions—I don't know what he's capable of and I won't have any more of you killed by this group."

Gaara, caring about people . . . Naruto looked down and smiled to himself at the strangeness of it all—then frowned at the vomit in front of him and decided that now would be a good time to change locations. He stood and turned to look for Kakashi—and was nearly taken off his feet as Sakura grabbed him by his collar and spun him til they were face to face. "You idiot I thought you were dead I was so worried—" Then her arms were wrapped tightly enough around him that his ribs creaked, and anything he'd intended to say got squeezed out in a wordless wheeze.

Both physically and mentally off-balanced, Naruto staggered when she let him go. Sakura'd hugged him! Kakashi was alive and sitting up, Itachi was caught, Gaara was acting like a human being—this might be the best day ever!

Without further ado, Sakura turned and crashed into Gaara, who grunted and grabbed at her as the impact almost knocked him over. Undeterred, she immediately ripped into him. "And **_you_**—I _told_ you that you can't just go off and do that, I _told_ you to be careful, and look what you've gone and done to yourself now—"

Naruto sighed happily and headed towards Kakashi. At least it'd seemed like Sakura'd gotten over any hard feelings she might've had. For Gaara to just take the abuse, too—Naruto guessed that the redhead liked her well enough to not squish her for it after all.

Pleased with his reasoning, Naruto dropped to a squat beside his instructor. Kakashi wearily met his eyes, rubbing the back of his head stiffly. "Looks like we almost made it there . . . It's been days, then?"

"Yeah, but it's no big deal," Naruto grinned. "See? Everyone's okay, we got Itachi—"

Kakashi perked. "You won?"

The blond slouched. "He helped," he muttered, jerking his thumb towards the sound of Sakura's diatribe.

"—And if you were any other patient I'd have put you on bedrest even though it's not like you even _have _a bed—"

"But that's nothing," Naruto grinned. "I softened him up first. Gaara just came in to do the cleanup."

"So everything's okay?"

Confidently, Naruto shot his instructor his best thumbs-up. "Yeah! Things couldn't be better."

Sakura's ranting abruptly cut off, and Naruto turned towards the pair curiously. He wasn't sure he'd ever seen Sakura lose her train of thought when it came to being mad at people—but then again, Naruto didn't think Gaara was supposed to be looking at her like he was going to _eat_ her. So if she froze up against him, it was just because Gaara was being creepy. And if Gaara stared back at her, it was probably because he didn't have many people try to hug him and didn't know how to react. And if the two suddenly started leaning towards each other as surely as if they'd both been magnetized . . .

Oh no. _Oh no!_

"Guys? Guys!"

This was the worst day ever!

Sakura abruptly let go of Gaara and darted back over to him. "What is it? Is something wrong?" Her palm bumped against his chest, her chakra probing at him.

"Yeah, I just . . . I . . ." Felt incredibly foolish, now that he had them both worried for nothing. At a loss for words, he grinned sheepishly at her.

From behind Sakura, Gaara approached a little more slowly. "Did you miss the worst of it?"

No, he'd stopped the worst of it, before those two started making out in the middle of—Oh, Gaara meant Itachi's technique. "Yeah." His chest puffed out with bravado he didn't really feel. "I thought it was gonna be something more . . . special, you know?"

"Be glad it wasn't."

The Sand-nin's steps seemed a little too short, and Naruto saw that Gaara was walking in an attempt to cover up how much his legs wobbled. Then Sakura'd slipped back to his side and wrapped an arm around his waist to steady him. "He didn't _eat _anything," she griped, by means of explanation.

Cover. That's what it was, cover. But they didn't have to look quite so _comfortable_ with it.

He couldn't shake the feeling that he was lying to himself.

**ooo**

The procession back managed to turn into something like a parade, leaving Gaara amazed that Leaf's ninjas ever managed to get anything done. Naruto was talking excitedly to—well, _at_—Lee, Lee's girl teammate was close at his side and grinning every time the green-clad ninja made some positive declaration, the Hyuuga stared off into space as if he were too good for everyone's company, and Gai supported Sakura's instructor while making all sorts of dire promises about some kind of future competitions. But Gaara couldn't think less of the man for needing the support—not with his own arm settled firmly around Sakura.

He frowned when another Sand-nin shot them yet another curious glance, and tried to look appropriately uncaring. But a hormone-addled Kazekage would at least be a little better than a nearly crippled one; so rather than stagger along under his own power, he let her presence keep his pace steady.

Not that he enjoyed it, of course. Not that he appreciated the curves and warmth of her against his side; not that he took pleasure in the color that came to her cheeks when she took her eyes off their path in order to look at him.

All right, so he was a hormone-addled liar. He smirked to himself and squeezed her shoulder. And if it wasn't for the concerned, disturbed looks Naruto and Lee were both giving him . . .

At least he had enough diplomatic experience that dealing with two jealous Leaf-nins shouldn't prove to be much of a problem. And if that didn't work, he was sure he'd be able to get away with beating the sentiment out of both of them.

Though Naruto merited more than that. He'd have to sit down and talk to the blond at some point—if Sakura's "talk" didn't put an end to things before he got that chance.

Sakura read his distant expression as something a little less complicated. "There's still soup in your room, you know."

"I'll get to it."

He squeezed her again and decided that other people just made things pointlessly, unreasonably complicated. And if the complications included things like the ease of her company and the tense, heated moment they'd shared earlier in the greenhouse . . . then he could completely understand why people would seek these types of complications out.

It wasn't until they'd gotten the less worn-out Leaf-nins settled in their rooms and gotten her teammates bedded down at the hospital that he was able to subtly coax her away from the others and into the hallway's relative privacy. He didn't want to delay things any longer. Separated from other people, she suddenly became shy again; cheeks coloring in the face of his attention, gestures hesitant. "I figured I'd stand watch for a little bit," she said. "They're both not gonna wake up any time soon . . . but in case they realize I'm there, you know?"

"It's . . . good of you."

She smiled faintly, and he suddenly became aware that he was standing entirely too close to her for it to be remotely appropriate. "I have some things to see to," he said, and shifted back to allow her some space.

"Yeah," she said, and made as if to turn back to the room. He caught her elbow to stop her—space was one thing, but fleeing was another.

"Talk."

"Yeah," she repeated. Her fingers brushed his forearm as she looked away and let out a slow breath. "Kankurou gave me a talk when we went to get you breakfast yesterday morning. He told me to not start anything with you that I wasn't willing to see through to the end. And I thought it was all ok then, because the end would only be a few days at most. And I figured you knew that, too." Her mouth twisted bitterly. "He said you wouldn't understand things that way. He was right."

"Yeah." So Kankurou'd seen through their natures and outguessed them both. He wondered what it meant that his brother hadn't tried to give him a warning as well.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Shun turn the corner further down the hallway. He nodded to the man, who nodded in response and stepped back to allow the pair some privacy.

Absorbed with looking down, Sakura hadn't noticed. "I didn't expect this."

"Me either," he replied. And he knew he should be worrying about another rejection, that he shouldn't relax, that he should pay attention to what she was saying instead of to how her eyelashes were a shade darker than her hair . . . But in defiance of _any_ modicum of common sense—if any had even survived exposure to her—he stepped closer in an effort to see them better. Sakura mimicked his movements, shifting until her clothing brushed his and her body barely nudged against him with every breath. Barely, but enough.

Was this safety? Could he trust her enough to not push him away again?

"I'm going to have to leave whenever they're ready," she said quietly, but still didn't look up at him.

"I know." Of course he knew—but damn it, he wanted more _time._

The plan fell together with a terrible, cold certainty. And if he wasn't afraid to throw it all away, he might be able to pull that off.

Her hands shifted to meet his, palms against palms, fingers searching and interlacing. And though he knew it was temporary, he still breathed her in, relishing the warmth and scent and softness of her—because it _was_ safe, and clean, and there, with her sentiments mirroring his, all he had to worry about was the passage of time. And for a little while, then, this would still be for him . . . and if all he could have was that little while, he'd have to accept it and be grateful.

He just hoped she wouldn't hate him when it was all done.

Her face turned up to his, her eyes bright and lips curving, strong and soft and perfect, and his, all his. "So are you gonna kiss me again or what?"

**ooo**

"Where's Baki?"

Shun looked up from where he toyed with the sling holding his arm immobile. "Trying to organize your missions for the day."

"I have special instructions for the shinobi leaving the village," Gaara said, and started walking. Shun fell into step beside him.

"I'll see that they get passed on while you get yourself together. You're barely keeping on your feet—our shinobi can't see you like that."

"I have something to check on first." Because if something, _anything_ had gone wrong with getting the Uchiha into place while he was too weakened to do more than point and direct, he'd never be able to forgive himself.

As if picking up on his train of thought, Shun nodded solemnly. "And afterwards—what are you doing about the medic?"

"Lunch, later. For now she's with her teammates," he said innocuously.

"You know what I mean."

"I'll figure it out."

After a few more steps, Shun prodded again. "They said the boy's another jinchuuriki."

"Yeah."

"Are we keeping him?"

Gaara shot the older man a look that barely managed to avoid ranking as venomous. "No." Then, because the refusal needed more fleshing out: "His loyalties are with Leaf."

"Good," Shun said. "Even _if_ his strength was added to the village, having two of you around—"

"He's not like me."

The stairway wound down under their feet, and a medic met them at the heavily guarded doorway of the cell where Gaara'd been imprisoned only two days before. "Everything's under control, Kazekage-sama. The prisoner is completely restrained and the damage you did won't impede us in any major way."

He nodded. "You have a week's time, possibly less. Remember that this is one of two remaining Uchiha."

"Yes, Kazekage-sama."

Behind the door was the man who'd almost killed Naruto, who'd been a part of the group that'd almost killed him—and who had wiped out almost all of his own family, leaving one unstable little brother to run off and cause the people Gaara cared about years of unnecessary misery.

He scowled. "I'll be back to help later."

And he had every intention of doing so—at first. But sometime after breakfast and during mission appropriations, some significantly more _interesting_ impulses came back to his attention. Sakura looked pleased to see him when he stopped by the hospital again later on, and left her watch of her teammates in Gai's hands without protest. And back at his place under the premise of lunch, he found himself less inclined to help her cook and more inclined to press close behind her, his hand under her shirt and against the downy skin of her stomach, nuzzling the back of her neck as she giggled something about how he tickled.

And after he'd inhaled the food she offered and pulled her back into the main room, after things dissolved into the near-glow of sunlight on warm skin, into pressure and taste and the delicate exploration of what she would and wouldn't let him do . . . he forgot about the Uchiha completely.

When she protested laughingly from under him that all this activity would burn more energy than he was consuming, he stopped to eat more. And afterwards, with the edge taken off of his hungers, with a comfortably full stomach and with her lying beside him on the couch, alternating between stroking his hair and rubbing his shoulders, he finally relaxed.

Warm. Soft. Safe. Wonderful.

As for the missing-nin . . . He was fairly certain it was bad form to go into an interrogation this light-hearted, but the man wasn't nearly important enough for him to worry about it.

**ooo**

Naruto slept for fourteen hours, waking early in the evening to find Kakashi asleep in the bed beside his and Kankurou waiting to his other side. "The Kazekage would like to see you."

Naruto stretched, somewhat impressed that he was able to move. Then, as the request sank in, he frowned dubiously. "That doesn't sound good."

"As long as you're not like Lee," Kankurou replied mildly. Then, as Naruto's trepidation faded to suspiciousness: "Lee saw Gaara and Sakura coming back from lunch. He got a little bent out of shape and Gaara gave him . . . a talking-to." The jounin grinned. "I was impressed—Gaara was even kind of nice to him when he cried."

Naruto grinned back distractedly and decided that he shouldn't feel so bad for still not being fully accustomed to this "Gaara being nice" thing.

"I know it's not much," the puppeteer said as they left the room, "but thanks for getting him back."

"Well, like I said—now he owes me one."

Kankurou's reply was troublingly mysterious: "I think he's working on that."

Sakura opened the door for them and unsuccessfully tried to convince Kankurou to stick around for dinner. When it looked like the attempt was certain to fail, Gaara passed his brother a couple of scrolls and a murmured request. Naruto stepped into the room and turned to watch their interaction. Gaara, clear-eyed and in control—it was almost strange to see.

Sakura sighed at Kankurou's excuse—that he was almost late for a night watch—then turned to the room's two remaining occupants. "It's gonna just be the three of us for dinner, then?"

"Yeah," Gaara replied. "Here, preferably—Naruto and I have things to discuss."

She smiled. "I'll get it started, then."

"C'mon," Gaara said to Naruto, and gestured towards another exit. "Our night skies are clearer than yours."

His mind spun as they stepped outside onto the small balcony, creating more and more terrible situations that would require a private discussion. Gaara was going to hold them hostage. Gaara'd lost Itachi and the Uchiha was coming after them. Gaara'd eloped with Sakura and they were expecting a litter of eyebrow-less, fluorescent-haired tanuki. Next month.

He'd start with the worst possibility—that way, he told himself, things could only get better. "So you two . . ." Naruto tried to settle on a descriptor and somehow found himself at a loss for words.

"I don't know what it is," Gaara said. His lips twitched with something that resembled a smile. "I think I like her."

"She . . . likes you, too?"

"She said she does. Sometimes." To his credit, the redhead managed to still look confused by the entire deal. "Me. Not the title—just me."

It took a moment for Naruto to realize that Gaara was watching him, waiting almost patiently for some kind of response. It took another to understand that this was probably the closest he'd ever see Gaara come to asking permission.

It felt like his childhood crush had been pulled out of his grasp, like he'd practically watched Gaara wander into their lives, sling Sakura over his shoulder, and run off again. Before, with Sasuke, there'd always been the chance that she'd get tired of the rejections and turn to him. Instead she'd turned to Gaara. The loss stung.

But a little bit of discomfort would mean nothing, if the other option was to begrudge his friend that little bit of happiness.

But warning him wouldn't be too bad, right?

"You're sure about this? I mean . . . She can be kinda mean. She can hit like—" Naruto punched his hand for emphasis, then stopped; if anything, Gaara looked even more interested. Naruto shook his head—there was absolutely no hope for the guy and the two probably deserved each other. "Never mind, all right?"

"Sure." Gaara paused for a moment, then mercifully changed the subject. "The Uchiha didn't leave any residual damage?"

"Na." Nothing that wouldn't give him nightmares for months to come, he was sure. "So with him, you've . . ." He bit his tongue on the words, trying to find ones that would fit. "Taken care of things?"

A nod. "There'll be no more running. He's come to the end of his path here." Then: "Sakura told me about Uchiha Sasuke. She said that he was obsessed with killing Uchiha Itachi, to the point of . . . complete irrationality."

"Yeah." The Sand-nin's words were carefully put, but Naruto couldn't ignore them—because it wasn't rationality that had driven Sasuke away, wasn't anything he could comprehend. The ease of the comment felt like Gaara had ripped a scab off an almost-forgotten wound, leaving him in pain and bleeding honesty—and he couldn't help but let the damage be seen. "I can't imagine . . . what he was thinking, what it must've been like, to make him run like that."

"I can." Frowning as if with the effort, Gaara followed suit. "He'll have dreamed it to the death of the dream, imagining every situation his mind could conceive until the thought tastes like dust and he can only hope the act itself can coerce some sort of feeling."

"Sad," Naruto mumbled quietly, and tried not to imagine the kind of existence that would provide this sort of insight.

"He didn't know how to let go, and for all intents and purposes it's destroyed him."

The blond looked up with a scowl. "He's not destroyed yet."

"No. Not quite yet." The redhead took a deep breath of chilly night air, staring out across the rooftops of his city. "What if I told you I could get your teammate back for you?"

Naruto jerked to alertness, and Gaara continued. "She said that he's obsessed with his brother. I have his brother here, and intend to kill him. If the Uchiha heard about this . . . He'd have to have a backup plan, a way out, just in case."

_Every situation,_ Naruto repeated to himself. Even one where Itachi got caught by someone else first. "You mean you could—"

"No. I mean I already initiated it. The shinobi I sent out on missions today are to tell whoever sounds interested that we have the Uchiha traitor and that we're going to execute him in a week."

"Do you think it'd work?"

"I don't know. In the meantime, my interrogation specialists are going to get every scrap of information about the Akatsuki out of him, by whatever means possible, and then Sand is going to hunt them down and crush them. And no matter what my advisors may fear, it's not war." Gaara tilted his head back to look at the sky. "It's five people. That's not a war, it's a bounty mission."

"Four," Naruto corrected quietly, and Gaara's attention snapped back to him. "Sasori said he killed his partner—put him down, like an animal."

Gaara was silent, looking upward again. Finally, he repeated the number, rolling the word as if to familiarize himself with the taste of it. "Four."

He'd blown straight past the inhumanity of their enemies. Naruto frowned. Was this what he had to look forward to? This detachment from any sort of sympathy?

Naruto would've asked, but he already knew what the answer would be and didn't want to deal with actually hearing it. He settled for focusing on Gaara's plan. "And if Sasuke comes back . . ."

"Then he's in Leaf's hands, and they can deal with him as benefits a traitor and missing-nin." His head turned towards the entrance to the building, where the girl they both cared for blithely cooked them dinner. "And I'm not telling her."

Sakura got weird around Sasuke. So Gaara'd picked up on that already—and he didn't want her to get weird before they found out if the plan would even work.

So Gaara wanted to know if he could be trusted to not let her know, too.

Suddenly uneasy, he tried to buy time. "Who else will know?"

"My shinobi, and you." Gaara watched him out of the corner of his eye, like a hawk eyeing a rabbit on the ground below. "You haven't said that you wanted him back yet."

"I do." For a second he couldn't believe he'd missed that part. "He's— He's just messed up, that's all. If we get our hands on him and get a chance, we can straighten him out! After all," he grinned toothily, "it worked on you."

Gaara smiled a small, self-satisfied smile, and was silent.

The quiet brought time for retrospect. Mentally skimming over their conversation, Naruto saw that Gaara'd been leading him carefully, gauging his responses each time to see if he would be able to handle the next puzzle piece. He didn't find himself appreciating the leading; he'd been used to dealing with Jiraiya's bluntness, and this convoluted outcornering put him more than a little out of his depth.

But the Kazekage wasn't out of secrets yet. Naruto looked back up to find Gaara watching him intently. "If this works, I'll need you to remember something." Pale green eyes held his gaze until he nodded. "There's no total recovery for him. It's not something a person can try on for a little while, or something that just goes away. It doesn't matter what people may want to believe or how they act. You don't _go_ sane—you just learn to hide it better."

Leave it to Gaara to confirm his worst fears and rain on his parade, all at once. "Then . . . with Sand . . ."

"I'm under control. That's what matters. Sometimes they even believe it." He sighed faintly, his voice wistful. "Sometimes not. Sometimes there is no fresh start, no technique that'll fix what's gone wrong in the past. And no matter how hard we try, things don't always work out the way we want."

"Hey!" The last thing Naruto wanted to hear was _Gaara_ getting all weird over how life was going to bite them in the asses. His voice rose, his volume cathartic as he verbally stitched an ideal future together. "Everything's gonna be good from here, you hear me? And this is why—everything'll work out because we'll _make it_ work out. _I'm_ gonna be Hokage. You're gonna be Kazekage over here. So you're gonna fix whatever's not working, and kick the asses of anyone that gives you crap over it, and then"—he raised his voice to make sure the redhead understood what was important—"you're gonna settle down and grow some frickin' _eyebrows!_ So you don't look so _weird!"_

Gaara stared at him like he'd suggested a diet of pure vegetables.

"Then!" Naruto bounced to the balls of his feet, pointing for emphasis. "Then we'll be allies, and we'll hunt down the Akatsuki and beat the hell out of them together! And it'll be great!" He planted his hands on his hips, thoroughly pleased with this plan of action. "What do you think about _that_ for a plan?"

The redhead didn't even blink. "I love you."

Naruto faltered, then frowned. Then as the words sank in, he straightened, concerned. "Hey, you mean like a friend, right?"

No answer. Gaara smirked faintly and turned to head back inside.

"Right? Hey!"

Still nothing.

He was about to go after the guy and beat the living hell out of him too, absolute defense or no, when Gaara started wheezing. Naruto had no idea what was going on but assumed the worst as Gaara's breath hitched with another rusty, raspy, gasping intake, his shoulders shaking and his hand raising to his chest. Sure that Gaara'd only made it this far to keel over at his feet, he yelled for Sakura—and then realized that no, Gaara wasn't dying. He was _laughing—_and it sounded absolutely _awful._

"What's going on?" Sakura demanded as she burst through the door; then took in Naruto's horror and Gaara's . . . well, Gaara just looked like a fucking mental case and there was nothing Naruto could do but lay the blame squarely on him.

"He's . . . He's . . .**_ weird!"_**

Sakura looked decidedly less than impressed.

Now worried for his own safety, Naruto turned his attention back to Gaara in an attempt to fix things himself. "_Stop_ that!"

Sakura sighed and shook her head, then turned to Gaara, her fingertips bumping against his in a gesture almost as telling as their near-kiss from earlier. "You're . . ."

"Yeah," Gaara replied; then paused, blinking, as if pondering the strangeness of his next words. "I'm just happy."

"Man," Naruto grumbled, "we need to teach you how to sound _normal _for once."

"First we'll teach _you_ how to not insult the Kazekage," Sakura glowered.

"We'll get to that." Gaara shook his head and changed the subject again as he led them both inside. "First, there's another matter. You're the only one in your team to not have made chuunin. To make it to the tests, you'd need a completely new team. And for what?"

It hadn't been a rhetorical question, so Naruto tried to form an answer out of years-old memories. "To find out . . . if you have self-control, the strength to head into awful situations without fear, the ability to fight around another's abilities while knowing and not knowing what they are . . ." He almost bit his lip. "The ability to keep confidential information a secret . . . Stuff like that."

"So you'd have to become a part of another team and start over in order to prove to Leaf that you can do everything that you've just done out there for the past few days."

Naruto couldn't say he'd thought of it that way. "Hey! That means I could go to Old Lady Tsunade and tell her that she should make me chuunin right now!"

"And when she kicks you out of her office window . . ." Sakura left the rest unsaid, but Naruto still cringed at the mental image.

"On the other hand," Gaara mused, "_I_ could talk to the Hokage about a field promotion."

Words bubbled up and failed, and Naruto wondered what kind of response Gaara would have if he told him that he loved him, too.

"But there are conditions," Gaara continued, and startled rifling through the folders that formed a somewhat intimidating stack on his table. "Like Sakura said, you need to be brushed up on diplomacy. Since we'll have a few days until it's time for you to leave, we can work on it." The redhead hefted and dropped the files onto the tabletop with an alarming _thump,_ and his smile as he looked up made Naruto suddenly, terribly sure that he'd been honest about that entire "you don't go sane" bit—and that if anything, he'd only gotten more sadistic with age. "We're starting now."


	14. Devil You Know

Naruto held onto his unspoken promise for days, certain that his silence about the plan involving Sasuke was for Gaara's protection. But the more he thought about it, and the more he picked up from Gaara's impromptu diplomatic sessions about the intricacies of leading others . . . the more he became sure that something was horribly wrong.

The relative warmth of the administrative building wrapped around him as he closed the door to the outside and scowled at it for good measure. He hated the climate there, hated how Sand's burningly hot days and freezing cold nights made it a miserable place to live—but he'd weather whatever it could throw at him tonight, if it meant he got the chance to speak to Gaara in private.

"You can't hope to keep control of everyone all at once," Gaara'd said offhandedly that afternoon. "But if you can convince them that they're doing something of their own volition and for some intangible greater good, they'll control themselves _for_ you."

It'd still taken hours for it to click that that's what was being done to him.

So he was going to try to talk sense into Gaara, who'd been honing his own abilities to manipulate people for years, who'd been manipulating _him_ for the past week . . . and who'd just succeeded in convincing Sakura to spend the night with him. Naruto scowled to himself as his mind ran through the possibilities—possibilities Gaara'd taught him to recognize. It wasn't really his business—okay, so Sakura would beat the hell out of him for being nosy if she thought that's what he was up to—but with Sasuke a factor, there wasn't any way things wouldn't get—

"What are you doing here?"

Gaara's voice coming from right behind him pretty much scared the shit out of him, and he whirled to cover how much he'd jumped. "Looking for you." Then, offended that he'd been snuck up on: "How'd you know I was out here?"

Half-hidden in the shadows, Gaara gestured towards the sand-covered stones of the hallway. "I can tell where you're walking."

But he could've sworn there hadn't been that much sand laying around a few days ago. That could only mean . . . "How much do you have like this?"

"The entire building. I reassigned the sentries; tonight, this is mine."

He'd be less disturbed if he was sure Gaara wasn't capable of burying the whole structure, them included, if something went wrong. Or if he was sure this demonstration of power wasn't a subtle warning.

But if it was a kind of warning, if it was Gaara effectively trying to chase him out of his territory . . . Then he couldn't back down.

He scowled defiantly and dove headfirst into his reason for coming. "Did you tell her yet?"

"Tell her what?"

Naruto wasn't in the mood for any more games. "About your plan, how Sasuke might come back."

The redhead's chin lowered, his standard scowl becoming a little more pronounced. "No."

"Why not?"

For the first time, he saw a second of hesitation as Gaara balked at answering. But as soon as he'd noticed, the moment was past. "I have no reason to."

"Yes you do!"

The response was as smooth and mild as the questions Gaara'd asked to walk him through how he'd teambuild or strategize in a fight: "Tell me why."

"Because . . ." Because Gaara'd made this another mock battlefield, and he couldn't back down without losing face. But because he'd learned to listen, Naruto heard the hint of desperation in his own voice. "It's not _right._ That's not something you do to the people you care about, you know?"

Gaara watched him owlishly. "Why?"

"Because . . ." His fists clenched as he fought for a reason Gaara wouldn't be able to blow off. _Rationale,_ he told himself, _make it seem reasonable, give him a solid consequence to worry about._ "How do you think Sakura-chan's gonna feel if Sasuke just shows up and you haven't warned her?"

"But if he doesn't, then I'll have upset her for nothing."

Naruto clenched his teeth and reminded himself that Gaara didn't exactly get to be Kazekage by being kind to people. But if that's how things were going to be . . . He had one last weapon, one last terrible thing he could say to bring things into perspective. Now it was _his_ turn to balk.

Gaara took his silence as an opportunity to press his point. "It's not dishonesty, it's just that I haven't told her." He shrugged. "It was just an idea, anyway. If it works I'll deal with the consequences—I'll tell her why I made my choices. But if it doesn't, I'll have gotten time . . . time with both of you."

The faint touch of the compliment swayed his resolve—and as Naruto felt it waver, he set his feet and spit out the question he hadn't wanted to use.

"Didn't you say that using and misleading people like this was what your father did?"

Gaara's mouth tightened and chin lowered. He seemed to take on mass from the shadows around him, suddenly appearing taller and that much more dangerous, practically oozing black malice. "I am _not. Like. Him."_

Well, _now_ he'd gone and fucked things up. He'd shoved Gaara out of his comfort zone with threats to the thing he wanted, then slapped him with a comparison to a man the redhead obviously hated—and now the guy'd gone feral. Going head-to-head with Gaara like this seemed about as sensible as getting into a staring match with Itachi—but damn it, someone had to cut him off. "I never said you wanted to be. I just need you to tell me where you'll draw the line."

Gaara suddenly seemed his own size again, and that much less sure of himself.

"I know you have to lead people, and that sometimes you have to not tell them absolutely everything . . . but tell me how you'll know when to stop."

No response. Nearly beside himself with frustration, Naruto snapped, "Damn it, Gaara, you—"

"I know." The redhead sighed and looked away. "Would you believe me if I told you I didn't want it to come to this?"

"I'd want to."

Green eyes focused on the floor, and Gaara's arms folded uneasily. "When I'm assigning missions, I have to know how far I can push the teams while keeping anyone from getting hurt. Here . . . I thought I was keeping her from getting hurt."

But if the tension on Gaara's face was any indication, he'd been trying to protect himself as well. The realization made some pained, tense thing in Naruto's chest relax—if what Gaara was doing was something he could understand, he could find a way to talk the guy past it.

"I can see why you didn't wanna tell her," he tried. "Sakura-chan gets . . . weird sometimes, you know? But . . . Right now she trusts you. Do you think she'd trust you if she found out on her own?"

"She said she could love _him_ even though she doesn't trust him," Gaara glowered; then he straightened, jaw clenching determinedly. "But I'm better than him."

He'd taken the thought path right to where Naruto'd hoped he'd go. The blond shot his friend his best, cockiest smile before delivering his final challenge: "Then prove it."

Gaara's posture relaxed a little, and he snorted softly. "Do you always try to protect people from other people's good intentions?"

"Sometimes," he grinned; then sighed and met the other's eyes. "Will you tell her?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. I'm gonna . . ." He gestured to the door and gave a wry half-smile. "You know that your weather sucks, right?"

The smoothing of Gaara's forehead and relaxation of his mouth were still steps away from a smile, but they'd do. "I can't do anything about the temperature."

"I figured," he said, and headed towards the door.

"Naruto," Gaara called, and he turned to meet the redhead's calculating gaze. "I want to fight you again sometime."

"Sometime," he echoed with a weak smile, and kept walking.

**ooo**

He'd done it. In less than a week, he'd pushed Naruto until the blond knew how to plot and delegate his way through all sorts of diplomatic mayhem—as well as to recognize when he should stop coercing and go for blood.

And now, Naruto'd turned those new skills on him.

Gaara scowled as he headed back to his rooms. On one hand, it was far too amusing to know he'd soon drop Naruto and his newfound penchant for cutthroat diplomacy in the Hokage's lap like a live exploding tag. On the other . . . It was a long shot that Sasuke'd come back, anyway. Rumor needed time to grow; he'd given it a week. And if he factored in the travel distance . . . he doubted the younger Uchiha would show up in time to see his brother alive at all.

And if he arrived late . . . There was nothing saying that Leaf ever had to know. And if that was the case, Gaara could afford to be generous and send them Itachi's corpse.

He wanted to ignore Naruto's advice, to hold on to the information until Sakura was safely away. The only way he could be sure things would go wrong would be to tell her. Because if he didn't . . .

The memory came almost unbidden: her in front of him at her door, her hand on his chest, and the color suffusing her cheeks as she said that yes, she'd stay with him that night.

Convincing her hadn't been a problem. Sneaking her back into his quarters in order to allay her worries about being seen, about the rumors picking up again, had been no problem. And the way they'd moved around each other, with him on edge and her shyly skittish . . . That'd been the closest thing to a problem they'd had.

Until Naruto showed up to insist he not close his eyes to the possible future.

No, he couldn't just ignore what the boy'd said. And now it seemed his only course of action was to see how Sakura would take his news.

It wasn't that he was afraid of throwing everything away. It was that he was terrified of how she'd react if she thought he was throwing _her_ in particular.

She was where he'd left her, propped up on one elbow on the couch, the blanket he'd already started thinking of as hers draped across her stomach and legs, and he stopped his approach in the middle of the room in order to look her over. It was almost like the nights she'd spent there before her teammates returned—except this time the half-lidded gaze she turned up to his was deliberately, teasingly provocative, and the old black shirt she wore was one of his own. And he had no idea what she had on under it.

And because of her wordless encouragement as well as Naruto's misgivings, he had to tell her.

"Do you remember when you challenged me before our first chuunin exam?" When she'd been the only one in her team who remembered that he had no right to be in Leaf without permission—and the only one with the gall to confront him over it.

She blinked, then brightened. "Now that I think about it, yeah. Why?"

"If you'd known what I was then, would you still have confronted me the same way?"

"If I'd known _who_ you were then," she corrected gently, "I still would've."

"Why?"

The corners of Sakura's mouth turned downward. "Because . . . a shinobi shouldn't let fear stop them from anything, and because it was the right thing to do."

He stood silently, hands at his sides, sorting his thoughts as her worried frown grew.

"Gaara, why are you asking me this?"

Damn her. And Naruto. And both of their tendencies to make him think in terms of morals.

"My shinobi have made no secret of the fact that we will execute Uchiha Itachi in the morning. Tonight would be the last chance Uchiha Sasuke has to come for him."

Her hands clenched in the blanket as she sat up, her interest crumpling to dismay. "You mean . . . You think he'll . . ."

"There's no way to tell but to wait."

Distress shifted to indignation as she shook her head and demanded, "But . . . _why?"_

"For Leaf. It'd restore one of your oldest bloodlines if we were able to recover him." And it'd be reparation for Naruto's loss, repairs for Sand's status, a buffer for the extra time Leaf's shinobi needed to heal and Sand's shinobi needed to wrest information from the missing-nin—

And it didn't seem that the politics of it concerned her. "No—_why didn't you tell me?"_

Baki'd told him that folding his arms made him look standoffish, so he clasped his hands behind his back instead. "You knew there would be some things I wouldn't be able to tell you."

"Secrets? Things that had to do with the village? Yes, I knew _that."_ Her hands raised to her hair, then dropped with short, jerky movements. "But this isn't _like_ that."

But he couldn't explain it to her. Not then.

When no further words came, she looked away. Her hands clenched to fists and shoulders shuddered—then she lurched to her feet. "I need a minute."

The door to his balcony opened, letting in a burst of cold night air, and closed behind her just as quickly. After a moment, Gaara took her place on the couch. It shouldn't take her long to see the sense in his logic, after all. She was a ninja—she should be able to push her emotions aside and—

He shook his head in frustration. This was Sakura, whose feelings shifted and churned and overflowed like an open water bottle being rolled down a hill. And as the decision now rested in her hands, held by the whim of her fluctuating emotions, he could only wait for her to come back in from where she was . . . Weighing. Judging. Deciding if whatever they had was something she needed to step away from. The full gravity of the situation sank in, and he remained still, hands on his knees.

This wasn't something he'd wanted.

And she'd want a reason, too—one he refused to fully admit even to himself; one he wasn't ready to give. And if he couldn't give the reason . . .

He shouldn't have listened to Naruto.

But if he didn't know where to draw the line with his important people, if he couldn't trust in their stability enough to be honest about things that might hurt them . . .

Shukaku curled into a satisfied, smirking ball in the back of his mind, cackling faintly about how badly he'd fucked up. After all, didn't he expect this to happen? Hadn't she already let him know where the Uchiha stood in her thoughts and memories?

Minutes slowly crept past, leaving him to eventually wonder what would bring her back inside first—her decision, or the temperature. But she looked unconcerned with the cold as she slipped back through the door. The utter defeat etched into her face brought him to his feet, though he stopped as she shook her head. "Gaara, I . . ."

Her breath hitched, and he realized she was finally crying.

"I don't understand," she finished. "Are—" Her temper snapped, and her fists clenched. "Are you trying to make me choose now, before anything else happens between us? Is that what you want?"

"I didn't want to tell you at all," he growled in reply.

"Because . . ." Her face fell. "Oh, _Gaara. _Do you . . . Do you really think that of me?"

"If this worked, you'd be leaving with him. And if you knew, you'd be thinking of him." He looked down. "What am I supposed to think?"

Her movements slowed, lips pressing together as she shook her head. "I . . . I don't know."

He hadn't intended this: the crumbling of her defenses, the breaking of her faith in him. His hands raised towards her in a unconscious gesture of comfort, but stopped.

"Gaara . . ." Light glimmered on the tear tracks on her cheeks. "Just tell me why. Not some made-up reason, not what you think I want to hear . . . just why."

_All it took,_ Temari'd told him once, _was just for you to open up so we could understand, and to have enough patience with us that we could open up, too._

It'd be easier to cut himself open, to place his still-beating heart in her battered medic's hands—but words had to make do where demonstrations would fail.

"Because when you leave, then this"—his gesture encompassed the space between them, the empty room, the otherwise silent night—"is all I have left of you."

His fists clenched, and he forced them to relax. "I want these hours without him, without worry . . . because they may never happen again."

There. He'd said it. And now, she'd see him for what he was—weak, not fit to be her shoulder to lean on . . . but instead more needy, more desperate than she'd been when she first stood alone before him.

Silence, and the space between them; as they waited for dawn, for her teammate who might be running into a trap because he didn't know how to let go.

Sakura spoke first. "Gaara . . . Don't think that . . ."

She didn't finish, and he watched her shake her head as she struggled with words. And in the end, she gave up on speaking entirely. Their arms fit around each other with the ease of familiarity, then clenched with the force of matched panic.

_We made this weakness in you,_ Baki'd said. Yes, they'd made it—and now he had to kill it. But to do that he'd have to step back, to make distance, to not rub his hands against her bare arms in an attempt to bring their warmth back. And as she pressed her chilly cheek against his, he realized that this addiction couldn't be broken by his will alone.

"Did you think I'd have spent the week running from you?" she whispered.

"I don't know," he said, and felt her flinch. "I've heard you talk about him. You said you'd still be able to love him, no matter what he'd done. If I gave you the choice between us, I can't . . ."

She pulled back a little to see his face, and he continued angrily.

"If you want someone who _wouldn't_ worry, someone perfect, you've come to the wrong place." He couldn't help but add, spitefully, "But you won't find them anywhere else, either."

"I know." Something hardened in her features, a closing off, and his heart sank. So this was it.

Years of training helped him push the ache aside, to replace it with cold that'd hopefully remain for as long as she would. And if it seemed his emotions would get the better of him . . . he could still have a few more hours with the missing-nin before dawn came.

As long as he didn't take it out on her, it didn't matter what he did.

"Gaara . . . It's not that simple. You both mean _something_ to me, but you're . . . You're _you._ You're . . . something completely different from what he could _ever_ be."

A demon-possessed bloodlust-driven mass-murdering insomniac with a debatable grip on his sanity? Yeah. Something he was sure Sasuke strove for.

She caught his hand and pressed it against her chest so he could feel the beat of her heart under the softness. "Do you understand?"

That what he'd done would be a proof positive indicator of her own ability to move beyond the past? That, by choosing this means of execution, he'd irreversibly altered his relationship with both Leaf-nin?

That no matter what, the way his hand fit the curve of her body still caused an undeniable physical reaction?

"Yeah."

Her hands loosened their grip on him, then let him go entirely as she took a step back. And as his mind raced, presenting him with image after image of her happy, her smiling, her trusting, her close against him, Sakura wiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand and reached for the hem of the shirt she wore, rubbing it consideringly between her fingers.

Even a rejection of his clothing . . .

He wouldn't blame her, hurt her for it. Not when he still fought with himself to make mental distance, to break his own need for her down until he could function again. No—no matter what, she'd walk away unscathed. What would happen to the Uchiha below them, though, would be a terrible accident—and what would befall the other, should he arrive, would be even worse.

"I think I need a shower," she said—and in one fluid motion, she pulled the shirt over her head.

She wasn't wearing anything under it. And as his thoughts tumbled over themselves in an attempt to make sense of the gesture—she was taunting him, she hated him that much, she'd lost her mind, she . . . wanted him?—Gaara moved only to grasp the discarded shirt that she pressed into his hands.

And if he looked beyond the planes and curves, the cream and pale pink of skin the sun wasn't allowed to touch, he could see the tense set of her jaw, the warring emotions in her eyes.

Her fingertips brushed his wrist. "Will you . . ." Then she bit her lip, turned, and strode into the bathroom as if going into battle. She didn't close the door; and in a moment, he heard the water start to run.

And as he forced his racing thoughts into some sort of understandable shape, he came to one: It was not a rejection. He didn't know what it was—a physical manifestation of her decision, a movement towards seduction, a way of telling him where he still stood . . . but it was definitely not a rejection.

Obscurely, it made him angry. She couldn't just _say_ it, could she?

And if he'd read her wrong, she'd . . . Gaara shook his head, frustrated with his own second-guessing. It didn't seem like there was any way this gesture could be misread.

There was no sound from her as he stalked into the bathroom, as he brusquely stripped off his own clothing. He stepped into the shower stall fully aroused yet fully prepared to maul her, and the step she took to the side still felt like a retreat. Impulse tore at him as he reached for her through the water's warm spray: He should, he should . . .

"Gaara," she breathed, and the sound bled his hostilities away. What he'd intended to be a rough touch instead brushed gently over the warming skin of her sides as her arms wound around him, and he licked the droplets of water off her shoulders so he wouldn't have to look her in the eye. Then her teeth were against his earlobe in the way she knew he liked, her hand at the small of his back pressing his hardness between them and against the soft, wet skin of her stomach . . . and as any last inhibitions fell away, he moved to return in kind, to learn the curves and intricacies of her body with his lips, hands, and tongue. Her hands finally encircled him where he wanted touched most, their grip strong and sure and roughened by hard-earned callus; and since he couldn't bite his own lip, he bit her instead.

It took far too long for her to bring one leg up alongside his hip, to brace her foot on the opposite wall. And as his need drew close to physical pain he felt her guiding him, felt the sensation enveloping him change from wet and strong to wet and slick and tight.

Rational thought fled but instinct took its place, pushing him deeper. Sakura's muscles clenched and shuddered around him, her eyes tightly shut—but her hands at his sides still pulled at him, her hips angling to take him completely in. And carefully, slowly, they found a deliberate back-and-forth rhythm; and as their pace evened out and he decided that she couldn't possibly feel any better, she cupped his face in her hands and kissed him again. Gaara's early life had left him almost completely inured to pain . . . but this he had no defense against. And with her wrapped around him, her skin sliding wetly against his front as the shower's spray pounded against his shoulders, her mouth and tongue and the little sounds she made in the back of her throat as he pushed into her—

"Wait," he gasped, clutching her hips to stop her from moving. But she still ground herself hungrily against him, and every thought to cross his mind was of heat, and wet, and her soft and clenching and caressing him and—

"Gaara," she murmured. Her hand sought his and guided it down between them; and with her fingers over his she showed him how to touch her. Her hips moved to meet his in a new way, a little harder, and when he responded with a quicker caress she gasped. And her hand was against his cheek, her eyes locked with his—and he knew what she was doing.

"Gaara," she repeated, and her legs parted further to take him deeper. And again: "Gaara," with her gaze still fixed on his face, her hips bucking up against his fingers, then down to drive him into her. She repeated his name breathily, desperately, even as her movements became frantically jerky. And when he wrapped an arm around her to hold her still, certain that the feel of her would overpower his control, she punctuated the word with nibbles against his throat, wet kisses against his earlobes and cheeks. Reeling, nearly overwhelmed, he kept rubbing—until he realized she wasn't grinding against him, she was fighting his grip in order to move again.

"Gaara," she gasped, "Gaara, _please—"_ And he let go.

Her arms tightened, hands slipping over the wet skin of his shoulders, her braced leg shaking violently as the drive of her body against his became harder, more uncontrolled, her head tilting back and eyes squeezing shut as she gasped out his name one last time—and then he felt the spasm hit her, her muscles clenching around him and fingertips digging into his back in time with her moans and the bucking of her hips. And at the sight, the sounds, the way she writhed, he had no option but to stifle his own gasp against her throat and let her climax bring his as well.

The water was cooling against his shoulders, the girl warm in his arms. He blinked away the spots swimming in his field of vision and opened his eyes to find her carefully wiping his wet hair back from his face. Sakura smiled abashedly, her arms tightening around him before her lips brushed his. "Gaara."

"Yeah," he replied. "Me."

**ooo**

They ended up back on the couch in the same way they had during their two-hour lunches of the past week: with her head tucked under his chin, her leg over his and their fingers entwined. And now she smelled like him as well—her skin, her hair, her hands where she'd caressed him—and as he pressed his lips to her fingertips, one by one, he realized that he'd never been so thoroughly, completely overcome.

"They're a little worse for the wear," she murmured at his attention, and he fit her palm to his cheek.

"I like them," he told her, as assuredly as if his opinion was the only one to matter, and she smiled, rubbing her thumb over his cheekbone.

He couldn't bring himself to put a name to this feeling—warm and comforting, and as clear and live and fluid as a spring welling up from between stones—but couldn't imagine how he'd gone for so long without it.

"Do you worry, Gaara?" she asked against his shoulder. "For this?"

Gaara decided he'd done enough admitting weakness that night, and shrugged instead.

"I know we're not indestructible," she said. "I know I'm not the best there is, that I could get killed out there any day even if I'm not supposed to think about it. And you . . . This last time, you almost _died._ I know what's happened to every kage any hidden village has ever had. I know this could be the last chance we get here, to be together like this . . . and . . . I'm scared." She finally tilted her face up to his, her eyes huge with worry. "Do you think less of me for it?"

"I can't."

Her hand clenched against his shoulder. "Gaara, what are we supposed to do?"

He didn't know—and rather than admit it, he kissed her again. Her hands were next, his body covering hers as he reveled in the roughened texture of her calluses against his tongue, tasted the salty spaces between her fingers, gently bit her fingertips and licked the tender skin of her wrists until knowledge of the blood pulsing underneath made him move on. He sought out every scar, every place on her body where something had drawn her blood, his mouth forming apologies against each in turn until she stopped him, drawing him up to see the flush of her cheeks and dilation of her pupils. Her hand trembled as she reached for his face, but her legs fitted themselves smoothly around his waist and her voice held steady: "Again."

Even as the word left her lips, he was in her.

This time, with the initial hunger past, he could relax, could savor the different ways their bodies fit together. And afterwards, another shower—he hadn't known things would be this messy—and then a return to the couch, where he stroked her hair until she fell asleep, her weight warm and comforting where her limbs draped across his.

He'd never be able to give this up, and he had to let her go.

Cheek against her forehead, Gaara sighed and waited for dawn.

It was after midnight when he felt it: the faintest disturbance, running feet on sandy stone. Gaara held his breath, searching with sand-built eyes and the most delicate of airborne structures.

The sand he'd left in Naruto's clothing told him the blond had settled down for the night, and none of his own shinobi should be in the building. There was no one else it could be.

And if he killed the Uchiha now, no one would know the difference.

It'd be so easy: to do what he should've done years before, to wrap a sandy fist around the traitor and put an end to him altogether. He knew the number of days it'd been since he killed, could feel them in the same way he felt the passing phases of the moon; like tangible pressure against his blood and bones. Gaara turned the thought over in his mind, tasting it, even letting Shukaku sample the plan. Sand had learned enough from the older traitor—crushing this one to splinters of bone and pulped tissue wouldn't hurt his village, and would prevent Sasuke from ever hurting anyone Gaara cared about again.

Somewhere below them, the intruder skidded to a halt, turned uncertainly, and then headed for the stairway to Itachi's prison.

Snug against him, Sakura shifted in her sleep.

And with a single hand seal, Gaara made his decision.

The sand clone came together with a hiss in Naruto's room, startling the Leaf-nin so badly that he fell off his futon. "He's here," Gaara said through the clone's mouth, and Sakura started awake at his movement. His last sentence was directed at them both: "Be ready for anything."

**ooo**

They were dressed and downstairs in time to meet Naruto, who charged in the door with his jacket still unbuttoned. And without a word, Gaara led the dash to where their teammate awaited.

"I had the building cleared out," he informed them as they ran. "Anyone else that appears is an enemy."

Sakura did a double-take. "You mean you left Itachi by—"

"The people here no longer have any reason to fear him."

They darted down the stairs, sand around their ankles as it raced them there; then slowed at the stairs' end, the sand sliding furtively through the partially-opened doorway, their truncated distance translating the muted sounds of the Uchiha's harsh speech into words.

". . . But in the end, it made you stronger. It made you like me."

"I'm not like you!"

"Don't lie to me, Sasuke." Itachi's voice took on a patronizing, condescending tone. "I can hear it in your voice."

"I didn't kill him," Sasuke whispered. "Even though you told me I'd have to, I didn't."

To Gaara's right, Naruto tensed up even more. To his left, Sakura drew closer, her hands against his sleeve.

"I didn't kill the person I truly cared for, either," Itachi replied. "All of the people I killed were replaceable. You . . . were not."

Gaara didn't understand, but he didn't care. His hands flexed, and the sand gathered itself in anticipation. If he caught the younger Uchiha now, before he'd enacted his revenge, then it'd add insult to injury, it'd snatch the bastard's dreams out from under his nose as casually as Sasuke'd broken his own team. It'd take less than a second to flood the room with sand, and then—

Naruto's hand clenched against his arm, stopping him cold. "If you don't let him," he said softly, "then this will never end. Just let it end."

"Just say it," Itachi rasped. "Validate me."

Gaara took a deep breath and nodded. "For you."

He heard Sasuke take a shuddering breath, and the Uchiha's voice cracked when he finally spoke. "I love you, Itachi."

A grunt, a hiss of indrawn breath . . . and then wheezing panting that slowed, rattled . . . and finally stopped. To Gaara's left, Sakura gave his arm one final squeeze and stepped back. And in another minute, the cause of all their troubles emerged, blinking in the light, to meet them. Something unpleasantly recognizable shifted in Sasuke's eyes as he recognized his audience, and Shukaku's bloodlust rose to meet it. It seemed some things never changed. But there was nothing further on his features, no second glance back through the door to what he'd left behind. Through blood and violence, it seemed, he was finally able to let go.

If the missing-nin made a single move to hurt either of his companions, Gaara would destroy him where he stood. But he didn't. Instead he set his blood-slick kunai on the floor and, as haughtily as if they hadn't just heard him pour his heart out, as if he hadn't just invaded Sand to kill his brother, he finally addressed them.

"I give in."

"Good," Gaara said, and turned to Naruto. "Now get him out of my village."

**ooo**

It wasn't until they were climbing back up the stairs, Sasuke in their midst, that Naruto noticed the sheer volume of sand moving along with them, following at their heels in a creeping wave. Beside him, Sasuke gave no indication he noticed or cared; his expression was blank, almost serene. On the other hand, Gaara looked like he wanted to kill something. They crested the tops of the stairs to find Sand's shinobi waiting . . . and Gaara immediately shifted back into the role of his office.

"Alert the Leaf ninjas. Tell them they're leaving." Then, to Naruto: "Get your things, too."

So now that they had Sasuke, Gaara was basically telling them to get the fuck out of his sandbox. Naruto opened his mouth to say something about that, but Sakura cut him off.

"I left stuff in the hospital—things I'll need."

"I'll walk you there," Gaara replied quickly—and then turned back to him to complicate things even more: "We'll meet you at the gates. The Uchiha's in your charge now." Finally, he turned to Sasuke. "Orochimaru's still alive? He knows you're gone by now?"

"Yeah."

"Then I'm not putting Sand in his way." Gaara shook his head and faced Naruto. "Even bringing the Uchiha here was dangerous. Orochimaru killed my father out there, in his own element—but if you stay, you're endangering my entire city."

It hurt that Gaara could discuss Sasuke as impersonally as he'd discuss merchant arrivals. Naruto scowled. "So Sasuke goes out of your hands and into Leaf's."

"No. I don't have faith in Leaf's control, or in their abilities to keep people safe, or in their abilities to see what's wrong with someone and try to help. I didn't say he's in Leaf's hands—he's in _yours."_

Oh shit.

Gaara must've read something from his expression, because he continued: "If it was my choice, I would've killed him back there. You'd tell me that wasn't the 'right' thing to do, no matter how much safer everyone would be. So now I'm giving you the chance to show me what the right thing is."

How was he supposed to know what was right? Especially with Gaara on his heels, in his face, pressing him for an answer . . .

Damn it, the jackass had probably been pushing him the entire week in preparation for a confrontation like this.

"I . . . don't know." He shook his head. "Too many bad decisions have been made. I don't know if I can make the right ones." Naruto closed his eyes, took a deep breath. "But . . . I'd like to try."

When he looked up, though, Gaara'd calmed—even smiled a little. "That's almost word for word what I told myself when I decided to become Kazekage."

Naruto wondered what would happen if he tried to strangle the Kazekage in front of his ninjas and in the middle of his own city.

"They'll accompany you," Gaara said, with a gesture to the ninjas around them. Naruto added things up as they turned to go their own direction: that the pair was hiding where Sakura'd really been from Gaara's own shinobi . . . or from Sasuke.

Sasuke didn't say anything. But after the years of his being gone, Naruto couldn't think of anything he _could_ say that wouldn't make him want to lash out. Was he burnt out? Was this what happened when someone saw the end of their dream, the resolution of years of nightmare? Was there the slightest chance the guy was ashamed of himself?

The Sand-nin with them stayed mostly out of sight, following from a cautious distance on the rooftops and from the shadows. From a distance he heard Tenten protesting that this had to be some sort of joke—and then he came into view, Sasuke in tow, and watched the collected Leaf-nins' expressions go from confusion and aggravation to disbelief.

As casually as possible, he turned to his old teammate. "About how far do you think Orochimaru is behind you?"

"Maybe a day."

"Well," Naruto said, and clapped his hands together, "if we lure him home, you think Old Lady Tsunade'll swing him around by his tongue again?"

Neji looked a little grossed out. Lee stuck his tongue out and skeptically peered down at its tip.

A glimpse of color from further down the street caught Naruto's attention, and he glanced over to see that Gaara and Sakura weren't there yet because they'd been distracted by each other . . . and were fighting. It looked like Sakura was in full form—her whole body moving with her words, her hands gesturing sharply, and her voice almost carrying to where Naruto stood—and then Gaara caught her hands and pressed something into them, and she stilled.

Sasuke couldn't catch him looking.

"Gaara put him in my charge, you know," he said to the others, and made a show of stretching until his spine popped.

"Do you really think that means anything?" Sasuke asked.

"Try to run again and you'll find out," he growled, and fought down his impulse to take a swing at the smart-mouthed bastard, telling himself that it'd look better if he _didn't_ lash out.

Damn it, Gaara hadn't given him a teammate. He'd given him a prisoner.

The thought unsettled his stomach a little.

Suddenly eager to be going, he glanced over at the pair again. They weren't moving. Whatever agreement they'd reached had brought them back together, arms around each other, clinging like some ninjas did when one was about to go on an exceptionally dangerous mission.

Now he understood their reason for secrecy earlier. This was something Sasuke didn't need to see.

Time to distract everyone. "Anyway, the sooner we get back, the sooner I find out if I'm a chuunin."

Neji's eyebrows raised. "Without any test?"

"Gaara said he'd talk to the Fifth for me." Being buddies with the Kazekage had some awesome benefits, even _if_ the guy liked to act like a jerk sometimes. "He said I proved enough out there."

Kakashi rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "You certainly met most of the criteria . . . but no one's gotten a field promotion for years."

He shrugged nonchalantly and tapped a fingertip against his forehead protector. "No one's gotten this without passing the academy test, too."

Sakura slipped into the group without a word and without looking at anyone there. Naruto started to say something to her about his pending rank—then took in her expression, a match for Gaara's uneasy pensiveness. It was much easier to bolt to the head of their group than it was to deal with either.

Temari, Kankurou, and some sour-faced older men—Baki and Shun, that's who they were—showed up to see them off. Naruto hadn't expected a going-away party, but almost _anything_ was better than being ignobly shoved out of the village in the middle of the night. But with the circumstances . . .

Damn it, he couldn't even think of a way to say goodbye, to thank Gaara for . . . Well, maybe not for the declaration of love, but for everything else.

Gaara met his eyes, then Sakura's. He glanced past Sasuke as if the other wasn't even there. "Be safe. I'll hope for the best for you."

That would do. "You too."

He wondered if they could race the coming sun to the desert's edge.

**ooo**

It wasn't that Gaara was standing at Sand's gate and staring after the group like a grouchy lost puppy. Instead, he told himself he was watching just to make sure nothing befell them while he was still able to help. And if anyone happened to offer a contrary comment, he'd bury them alive.

But mercifully, his siblings brought support rather than judgment.

"I think," Temari stated, as she took a step up to stand beside him, "that I'm proud of you."

"I think," Kankurou echoed, "that I'm kinda surprised you didn't try to get her to stay."

Gaara waited, weighing his success versus this failure; then told them. "But I did."

He watched their expressions, watched as they simultaneously gauged the distance between the departing group and their own, saw their shock blur to confusion as they took in his calm demeanor in relation to his news.

"I asked her to stay," he elaborated, "and she said no."

Through her tears, with her fist clenched in his clothing as if she wasn't sure whether she wanted to shake him or hit him, demanding to know what the hell he was thinking as surely as the silence of his siblings begged the same question.

"It's a good thing she went," he said. "If she'd stayed, it'd strain relations with Leaf and she'd become a missing-nin from her own country . . . and if she would breech loyalties with so little thought and leave the people she's supposed to care about so easily, I'd never be able to trust her in Sand. It hasn't even been two weeks."

Silence from his siblings—but Shun spoke up. "Will you trust her if she comes back?"

"We'll see."

Kankurou stared at him like he'd grown a second head. Temari stared like the second head had started spouting poetry.

"What?" he asked them. "Did you think I'd have done that without thinking things through?"

If he didn't let Kankurou use the blanket, it'd smell like her for a while longer.

"No," Baki answered for them. "But it's still not something I would've initially expected from you."

Shun shook his head and watched the departing group for a moment before gesturing towards them. "This is one of the best and worst things about your being Kazekage."

Gaara turned to shoot him a suspicious glance, expecting a barbed bite to follow the backhanded compliment, and Shun coolly continued. "Because you've shown that what you want is Sand's greater good after all . . . and that you still won't hesitate to use _anyone_ to get what you want."

Maybe he was right. And maybe she'd understood, and could forgive him for it after all.

"They left the Uchiha," he told Shun. "Find out if there's anything left to be learned from him."

Shun nodded obligingly and turned to the open gates, Baki falling into step beside him. "I still really don't like him," Kankurou muttered at the man's retreating back.

"You still don't have to," Temari replied. "Just don't get caught the next time you jump him."

Sakura looked back over her shoulder at him once, and Gaara weighed and defined the movement: an echo of the worry he felt, but so near to being under control that he couldn't bring himself to fault her.

And he'd just told his advisor and ninjas he was happy with having sent her away.

With only his siblings at his side, he could finally voice his trepidation. "Do you think I did the right thing?"

Kankurou closed his eyes and nodded, and Temari placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Yeah. You did good."

Sakura'd put her trust and caring in his hands, then left him holding them as uncertainly as he would a delicate wild animal. And though he hated having lost full control of the situation by letting her leave, his other options—making her stay with lies or force—offered nothing but the promise of that fragile construct's destruction.

"I can wait," he told them, and prayed that he was telling the truth.

**ooo**

They made it out of the desert a few hours after dawn, stopping to get their bearings and fill their water bottles at the first small stream. At the water's edge, Naruto closed his eyes and faced into the morning sunlight. It was a new day, a new chance to set things right, and he'd be damned if he didn't grab onto this opportunity with both hands and force it into the shape he wanted to see.

But behind him, Kakashi and Gai had taken it upon themselves to corner Sasuke.

"It's not going to look good for you at all if you walk back into Leaf acting like you still don't care," Kakashi said.

"I'm tired of caring," Sasuke said; and for a second Naruto saw some sort of emotion on his face.

Then it was gone, and he moved closer in case his help would be needed. It wasn't that he was itching to beat some sense into Sasuke . . . Ok, so he was. Whatever. Plus with how Sasuke'd blown off all the hell he and Sakura'd been through because of him and his stupid fucking brother— "Hey! Why couldn't you have decided that a few years ago?"

For a second, he might've seen something that remotely resembled guilt.

"Naruto." Sakura's hand was on his shoulder, and she stepped up beside him. "If he doesn't care, then he won't mind what happens."

"_We'll_ mind! We've spent to much time, we've fought so hard—Sakura-chan, they _execute_ missing-nin!"

"Probably not this one. He's the last of his bloodline, and he knows it." She looked back to Sasuke, and in profile he noticed the puffiness of the spaces under her eyes. "Tsunade-sama said she'd have your Sharingan sealed away if she ever got you back. When she said it, I didn't think it'd be necessary. I thought you'd show remorse."

"I've done what I needed to, to avenge my family. Leaf can do whatever they want to me now. I will atone."

"Atonement's supposed to be about feeling bad for what you've done," Naruto snapped. "You aren't even _acting_ like you feel bad—how is anyone supposed to feel sorry for you?"

_Until the thought tastes like dust and he can only hope the act itself can coerce some sort of feeling,_ Gaara'd said. He hadn't said anything about what happened once that dream was realized. He hadn't said anything about what someone would feel afterwards.

"This from the one who made up with Sand's monster, despite what he'd done to you," Sasuke said. "And since both of you can forgive _him_ so quickly—"

"_Enough."_

The tone of Sakura's voice made the hair on the back of Naruto's neck stand up. He'd seen her be happy, be angry, be determined, be near-frantic with worry—but he'd never seen her go cold before. The gaze she turned to Sasuke, though, was as flat, as devoid of emotion as . . .

"Gaara set this up."

It seemed the Fifth Kazekage had rubbed off on both of them.

"And?"

She stood, slim and cold in front of all of them, and let it out. "And I slept with him."

Naruto struggled to keep his expression blank and refused to look at Lee. Sasuke's mouth twisted with disdain. "Figures. You—"

"It wasn't for you," she interrupted. "I didn't even know about the plan to lure you back until a few hours ago."

The Uchiha turned away and started checking the buckles on his small pack with a show of uncaring that Naruto didn't believe for one second. "What's your point?"

"That I learned more about him in a week than I learned about you in a year."

"If you sleep with people just because you get to know them—" he started wryly, but she cut him off.

"Damn it, Sasuke," she snapped, "two and a half years ago it would've been _you._ And I would've done it because I'd have thought it'd make you better, make you see that someone cared for you, and it would've been stupid and wrong of me. You've both been through hell, but here's the difference: he tried to move past it. And I got to see that. It's because he wanted to change, and tried to change, and managed to get people to see him differently despite what he's done to them before. It's because he was able to admit when he tripped up over his own good intentions. I can respect him now—I can care for him. But you—I don't even _know_ you anymore. Maybe it's that I never did."

She'd reached out like a plant under stone reaches for light, with faith as blind as its tendrils—and where Sasuke'd failed her, Gaara'd reached back. But the stone had reshaped her. Ino'd told Sakura she'd blossomed years before; Naruto wondered what this moment of evolution could be.

Sasuke finally turned back to her. "You're delusional."

"Because I saw the good in someone and fell for them?" she snorted.

"The _good_ in him . . ." Dark eyes narrowed. Do you think he's some kind of nice guy? Did you even _see_ what he did to Itachi?"

So Sasuke's focus was still on Itachi, even after the guy was dead. Naruto's jaw clenched—no, killing his brother hadn't fixed anything.

It didn't look like Sakura cared. "Why would I care about Itachi? For all the people he's hurt or killed, I hope Gaara did worse to him than I could possibly imagine."

"He was my _brother—"_

"He did this," she whispered back. "You _let him_ make you do this. And they"—she gestured towards their instructors, towards Leaf—"they let you make that choice."

Sasuke's eyelids lowered a fraction, and Naruto took a step closer in case he decided to lunge.

"What are we supposed to do when the people who are supposed to teach us . . . teach us to look the other way when one of our friends, our teammates, our friends' children is in need?"

"Sakura," Lee started, and shifted forward. Sakura shook her head to stop him, then looked up to Kakashi and Gai.

"This is why our shinobi run," she murmured. "You give them nothing to look forward to but blood and hate and pain and death . . . and then, by the time someone tries to show them differently, the damage is done. It's too late."

"So you're agreeing with me," Sasuke said, and Sakura turned to him as if she'd forgotten he was there. "Sometimes it _is_ too late. Like with _him_ . . . It doesn't matter what kind of good you think you see in him; it's too late for your Sand-nin. He's spent years being a monster, with no one to keep him in check. Nothing short of divine influence could fix him." His chin lifted, lips curving in a triumphant smirk. "He can't change, and it's stupid to expect anything else from him."

Emotion finally crossed over her face, as her forehead furrowed with hurt and mouth twisted with misery. "You really think so?"

"Yeah."

Naruto saw the look in her eyes and knew what was coming as certainly as Sasuke didn't. "No, Sakura, don't—!"

Uchiha Sasuke was already unconscious when he hit the ground twenty feet away. Two of his teeth didn't make it quite that far.

"It'll be harder for him to care now, won't it?" Sakura said to no one in particular. Then: "I'll scout out the area. Don't worry—_I_ won't leave."

Lee started to follow her, but Naruto stepped into his way to stop him. "I'll get her." Then, almost to himself: "I'll bring _her_ back, too."

**ooo**

She hadn't gotten very far. Naruto found her sitting on the ground just out of eyesight and earshot, biting her lip as her hands clenched around something. "I . . . I can't believe I told them all."

"Well . . ." He plopped down beside her as a show of support. "At least you were honest about it?"

"I guess." She sighed and shook her head. "I might've messed up."

"Huh? Nah! You gave him what he deserved, Sakura-chan!" Naruto punched the air for emphasis. "Badmouthing Gaara like he'd seen him for more than ten minutes . . . He didn't know what he was talking about—and then he didn't know what hit him!"

He got the response he was going for: a smile, however faint. "I didn't mean with that, Naruto. I meant about Gaara." Naruto frowned—if she didn't stop chewing on her own lip, she'd probably start bleeding. "Before we left, he told me . . . that as Kazekage, he couldn't spend his time worrying about another village's ninja. That I'd be a liability to his village, and with his position, any liability could get someone killed. I asked him why he let things get that far between us if that's what he thought . . . and he told me that he hadn't been thinking in terms of letting me leave."

Her hands uncurled, revealing a sand-scoured forehead protector. Naruto didn't need to see Sand's symbol stamped into the metal plate, or even to guess, to know whose it had been.

"He asked me to stay. And I told him no, and"—her shoulders shook, breath hitching, and she blurted out the rest—"And now I wonder if I did the right thing."

"Sakura-chan," he mumbled, the words suddenly feeling thick as they came out of his mouth.

"You know what he said after I told him no? He said, 'Good.'" She sniffled, smiling a little. "He really is insane."

"That bad?"

"No," she sighed, and shook her head. "Not really."

He waited, scuffing a rut in the dirt with his heel, until it seemed she'd calmed down some. Then another thought struck him, and Naruto scowled over his shoulder. Their comrades would be waiting . . . and not just for their return.

"They'll probably be watching you now," he said. "With the way you talked to them . . . They'll be afraid you'll pull another Sasuke."

"Let them," she replied. "I won't misstep. And if I decide it's the right thing to do, I'll follow every rule for transfers, down to the letter."

"If Old Lady Tsunade doesn't want you to go . . ."

Sakura sniffed. "You've seen him. He'll probably have a way to bully her into it—and he probably has one set up already."

Naruto smiled to himself—until the words clicked, and he blurted out his revelation. "He does."

"Huh?"

"He still has Itachi." With all the mess, Naruto hadn't even noticed that Gaara'd shoved them out the gate with only one Uchiha. "There's his leverage point. It's not like Leaf can demand the body of a missing-nin or else, you know?"

"But since Itachi's one of the last two of a major bloodline, Tsunade-sama won't want to just let him go."

"Aw . . ." Naruto flopped back onto the ground. "We're gonna end up going back almost as soon as we get home, aren't we?"

"Probably." Her chuckle came out muffled, a brief expulsion of air and shudder of her shoulders. "And I told him he'd have to have faith that I'd come back to him, too."

He winced. "You know how he feels about trusting other people."

"Yeah." Sakura stared out across the landscape, towards the morning sun. "But he still told me . . . that he'd always have a place for me there. Do you think he understands?"

He thought of everything Gaara'd done to shift them around, his plotting, his dissection of people's motives . . . and smiled, reaching out to touch her arm. "Yeah. I'm sure he does."

**ooo**

It was three days later that the very confused messenger arrived at Gaara's office, interrupting his meeting with Kankurou and Temari in order to pass him a slim tube from a messenger bird's leg. Something inside rattled when he accepted it, and curious, he upended it into his hand.

When the messenger left and his siblings leaned closer to learn the reason for his stillness, he was still staring at the tube's only contents: three cherry pits.

She'd promised them to him, and was following through on her promise.

And now he was left with a handful of seeds, wondering exactly what the hell he was supposed to do with them. If absolutely necessary, he could fumble his way through the basics of gardening: a pot, some dirt, some water . . . but when it came down to it, he'd always left the care of the plant in his apartment to Temari or Kankurou. He didn't know plants. He knew killing things.

But if this was Sakura's way of telling him to have hope . . .

Gaara wrapped his fingers around the seeds and looked up to meet the matched, expectant gazes of his siblings. And as he reached his decision, he sighed, something in his chest relaxing as he turned to them. "Tell me how to keep this thing alive."

Kankurou leaned forward, his elbows against the edge of Gaara's desk. "Tell us what you need to know."

"Everything," he said. His shoulders shook with a silent chuckle at his own silliness; but he smiled anyway, because he knew that with this chance, he could make everything all right. "Everything."

* * *

...

* * *

The first main theme was unanswered questions.

Much thanks goes out to my beta readers—all twelve or so of them. This thing is the size of a novel and took me two years to finish. One down; original stuff to go.


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